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I 


To  JW.^~M3E3L^^ 

IN    appreciation    of   your    membership   in    the 
Eliza    A.  Otis    Memorial    Association,    this 
volume  of  her  Writings  is  presented  to  you 
by    the    Executive    Committee,    accompanied  by 
their  good  wishes  and  those  of  the  publishers  and 
of  the  compiler. 


1876-1904 


CALIFORNIA 

"Where  Sets  the  Sun" 


Writings  of  Eltsa  B.  ©tie 

(  Mrs.  Harrison   Gray  Otis,  long  with  the  staff  of  ihe  Los  Angeles  Times) 

IN     POETRY    AND    PROSE 

Hrranseb  anb  <£btteb  fcj>  (£ 


IN    TWO    PARTS 

UNDER   ONE  COVER 

With  Portraits  of  the  Author  and  Other  Illustrations: 
also  an  Appendix,  "Memorial  Chimes" 


LOS  ANGELES 

THE  TIMES- MIRROR  COMPANY 
1905 


Journeys 


In  Times   of   Peace   and  War.     Across  the  Continent   from 

Ocean   to  Ocean.      From  Washington's  Monument  to 

the  Golden  Gate.     From  Pacific  to  Ardic  Seas. 

From    the    City   of  the   Angels   to   Old 

Mexico.     From  Childhood  to  the 

Verge  of  the  Great  Beyond. 


PRICES:      Popular   Edition,    $3.00;    Edition  de  Luxe,  $15.00. 


Prefatory 

The  poems  in  this  book  span  a  period  of  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  Those  of  them  produced  previous  to  April,  1880, 
were  written  while  the  author  lived  in  Santa  Barbara;  those  written 
subsequent  to  July,  1882,  were  produced  after  she  became  a  resi 
dent  of  Los  Angeles. 

The  great  abundance  of  literary  material  left  by  Mrs.  Otis 
would  have  justified  the  publication  of  her  writings  in  two  volumes, 
which  was  at  one  time  contemplated;  but  by  adopting  an  excep 
tionally  large  page,  using  type  of  a  moderate  size,  and  separating 
the  matter  into  two  general  sections  (poetry  and  prose)  under  the 
same  cover,  a  single  large  volume,  beautifully  printed  and  bound,  is 
the  result.  The  entire  work  on  the  volume — composition,  electrotyp- 
ing,  illustrating,  printing  and  binding — was  done  by  the  Times-Mirror 
Printing  and  Binding  House. 

Several  of  the  poems  on  California  originally  appeared  under 
that  specific  title.  In  this  book  these  poems  are  numbered  from 
II  to  VIII,  inclusive,  and  appear  on  pages  1 ,  2,  3  and  4 ;  each  is 
separate  and  complete  in  itself,  and  not  a  subdivision.  There  are, 
besides,  many  others  on  the  same  favorite  topic,  bearing  various  ap 
propriate  titles. 

A  complete  topical  index  is  printed  at  the  back  of  the  book. 


iii 


180128 


CONTENTS. 

(By  Divisions  Only.    For  Complete  Index,  see  back  of  book.) 


Page 

California  —II,  III,  IV,  V,  VI,  VII,  VIII 1-4 

Trees,  Flowers  and  Grasses 20 

Mission  Days 27 

The  Months  and  Seasons 31 

The  Drouth  and  the  Rain 59 

Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge 65 

Under  Arctic  Skies 74 

East  and  West    77 

Poems  of  Patriotism :     Tributes  to  Valor  and  Greatness 78 

God  and  Nature   102 

Life  and  Duty,  Hope  and  Joy 1 16 

Man  and  Woman   119 

The  Undiscovered  Country 125 

Juvenile  Poems   144 

Unclassified  Poems   168 

Snatches  of  Song :    A  Young  Heart  Sings  to  Other  Young  Hearts  195 

Other  Short  Verse   197 

PART  II.-DESCRIPTIVE  PROSE. 

In  the  Yosemite 201 

Other  Sketches  of  Travel 208 

In  War  Times  209 

Editorial   Writings    .  211 

Lay  Sermons   234 

The  Saunterer   259 

House  and  Home  260 

Our  Boys  and  Girls 262 

Lights  and  Flashes   263 

Personal  Sketch  of  the  Author 264 

Appendix :     Memorial  Bells   267 

Tributes  from  Other  Poets  277 

Index    278 


IV 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


At  Page— 

"  California,  where  Sets  the  Sun  " Cover 

Portrait  of  the  Author  (1890),  frontispiece vi 

View  in  the  Peristyle  of  "  The  Bivouac  " vii 

The  Golden  Gate   viii 

Big  Trees  21 

Mission  San  Juan  Capistrano 29 

Mission    San   Gabriel 31 

Clouds'  Rest   67 

Mt.  San  Antonio   69 

Popocatepetl    73 

"  Storm-tossed  on  Alaska's  Shore  " 75 

The  Flag  79 

Arlington,  the  "  City  of  the  Dead  " 87 

The  March  of  Empire 91 

Christopher  Columbus    93 

Washington's   Monument    97 

Portrait   ( 1878)    145 

Portraits   (group)  :     1855,   1856,   1903 195 

Bridal  Veil  Falls 201 

Portrait    ( 1903)    264 

Tower  and  Bells  267 

Floral   Peristyle    276 

Certificate  of  Membership   280 


UNIVERSITY 

OF 


MRS.  OTIS   IN    1890. 


CALIFORNIA'S  GOLDEN   GATE. 


"Swing    wide,  O    Golden  Gate  of  mine!1 


alifornia: 


tfje 


A  WONDROUS  LAND.     (1879.) 

Thy  year  is  one  long  Summer,  and  thy  earth, 

Cradled  in  sunshine,  keeps  her  heart  so  warm 
There  is  no  room  for  shadow  or  the  birth 
Of   devastating   thunderbolt   or   storm. 
Sweet   singers  in  the  old   Past  sang  of  thee, 
And  ships  made  paths   across  the  pathless  sea 
To  reach  thy  golden  shores,  for  bards  had  told 
Of  thy  sun-flooded  plain  and  mountains  gaunt  and  old; 
And  those  brown  Children  of  the  Sun  had  dreamed 
Of  thy  fair  skies,  until  to  them  they  seemed 
Xot  quite  of  earth,  for  their  wise  ones  had  said: 
Close  by   the  gates  of  Paradise— sometimes  ajar- 
Broods  endless  Summer  o'er  a  wondrous  land, 
With  shining  skies  and  golden  strand, 
And  beauty  like  the  undimmed  brightness  of  a  star. 

II. 

Dark-eyed  and  drowsy-lidded,  with  face  brown 

'Xeath  centuries  of  suns;  with  cheeks  touched  with 

The.  rich  carmine  of  the  wild  pink's  flush,  and 

Wearing  the  gold  of  the  wild  poppy  on 

Her   breast,   regal   in   queenliness;    her 

Majestic  forehead  the  Sierra's   front; 

Her  breast  the  swelling  hills,  smooth-rounded,  and 

Her  lithe  limbs  the  fair  valley  stretching  to 

The  sea,   clad   in   rich   garments   of  springing 

Grasses  and  set  with  precious  jewels  of 

Bright  blossoms  multitudinous;  with  a 

Voice  of  liquid  melody  heard  in  her 

Running  streams  and  the  soft  whispers  of  the 

Summer   breeze,   in    the   old   past,    which   like   a 

Dream  has  vanished,  was  California, 

Loved  of  the  Sun,  a  maiden   fair, 

Wearing  the  golden  arrows  of  the 

Burnished   West,   flaming   with   tropic   splendor, 

As  the  rich  clasp   for  the  sunset  mantle 

Round  her  voluptuous  shoulders  thrown,  to 

Which  the  wanton  breezes  gave  caressing  touch, 

While  spicy  odors  lent  their  perfumes  rare 

To   all   her   garments. 

Sun-warmed   and   sun-browned 
Were  all  the  races,  too,  that  told  their  love 
Of  her,  with  tawny  cheeks  warming  beneath 
Her  ardent  gaze.     Upon  the  sunlit  heights 
They   leaned  to  her  and   touched  her  robes  with 
Reverent  fingers.     The  flowers  which 


Lay  within  her  garment's  folds  had   for  their 
Ears   soft   tongues   of  speech.      Sierra   heights   were 
Holy  altars  from  which  the  mists  of  Morn 
Uprose  like  sacred   incense.     The  running 
Streams  babbled  a  prophecy  of  never- 
Ending  being  as  they  ran  on  to  see 
The  Ocean's  vastness,  beyond  which  lay  the 
Happy  hunting-grounds,  and  the  Good  Spirit 
Smiled.     The  wigwam's  curling  smoke  rose  to  the 
Blue,  losing  itself  in  sunshine.     Peace  was 
In  all  the  shining  air,  and  Xature  these 
Her  native  sons  fed  lovingly.     How  fanned 
The  giant  oaks  their  bronzed  foreheads,  and  dropped 
Them  nuts  to  ease  their  hunger !     How  leapt  the 
Wild  hare  for  their  arrow's  sport,  and  how  stole 
The  deer  into  green  thickets  when  their  bow 
Was  strung,  and  the  Sea  laughed  beneath  their  light 
Canoes  as  swam  the  fishes  for  their  rude- 
Wrought   nets.     Ah !  Xature  loved  them,  her  simple 
Children,  and  California's  heart  was 
Warm  with  their  caress;  yet  still  she  kept  it 
Fancy  free,  and  cast  coy  glances  at  the 
Coming  years,  as  if  her  dusky  eyes  held 
Glance  prophetic,  and,  vision-brightened,  saw 
The  glory  of  her  womanhood.     She  let 
Them  pass,  those  tawny  chiefs  who  wooed  her,  and 
The  later  race  of  Andalusia's 
Sons,  and  kept  her  riches  and  her  rarer 
Graces  veiled  till  came  the  final  Conquerors. 
Ah,  then  how  gathered  she  her  wines  and  poured 
Them  for  their  tasting!     The  orange  bloom  she 
Twined  in  garlands  for  her  forehead.     The  rich 
Poinsettia  made  a  ruby  for  her  finger. 
Her  garments  of  wild  grasses  she  threw  off, 
Attired  herself  in  robes  of  golden  wheat, 
And  decked  herself  with  silken  tassels  of 
The  growing  corn.     White  roses  formed  the 
Border  of  her  mantle,  and  "Cloth  of  Gold" 
Was  round  her  garment's  hem.     Her  diamonds 
She  caught   from  playing  fountains,  and  the  light 
Within  her  eyes  was  like  the  sunlight  falling 
Through   swaying   palms. 

And  then  her  lover  came. 
The  one  she  was  to  wed,  within  his  hand 
The  glorious  banner  bearing  of  the 
Stripes  and   Stars.     And  she  will  be  mother  of 
Royal  sons,  and  Queen  of  Freedom's   golden  West, 
And  at  her  gates  shall  surging  Empire  rest. 


California. 


in. 

Child  of  the  mountains  and  the  wide  blue  sea, 

Cradled  in  calm  and  sunshine,  lo!  I  lie, 
With   hands   outstretched   unto   the   world   afar, 
Fragrant  with  Summer's  breath  on  hill  and  lea, 
Bright  in  my  splendid  glory  as  the  star 
Which  gleams  at  twilight  in  the  western  sky, 
Pinning  Night's  mantle  round  the  breast  of  Kvc, 
As  Night  and  Silence  with  soft  fingers  weave 
The   tender   spell   of   beauty    for   my   hours, 
Which  all  the  year  are  cradled  with  the  flowers; 
For  e'en  when  Winter  holds  my  mountain  crests, 
And  heaps  his  snows   upon   their   granite  breasts, 
Bright    Summer    dreams    below,    so    glad,    I    wist, 
In   robes   of  gold   or  sunset   amethyst. 

So  glad !  so   full  of  song  and  shining  days, 

Nursing    the   tawny    hills    upon    her   knees, 
Kissing    my    valleys    as    they    stretch    so    wide, 
Long-limbed   and    fair   down  to  my  ocean   ways, 
Where,  laughter-loving,  creeps  the  silver  tide, 
And  flings  its  whispers  to  the  waiting  trees. 
Ah,  how  the  days  smile!     how  the  air  doth  wake 
To  melody  which  bird   and   leaf-lute  make! 
The  orange  bloom  is  all  the  Winter's  snow 
That   my    fair,   smiling  valleys  ever  know. 

Know  ye   the   wonders   of  my   hills   and   vales? 

The  marvels  of  my  clime— sun-flooded,  fair? 
The   gold   that   fills   the   bosom   of  my   skies? 
So   beautiful   its  light,  before  it  pales 

The  warm,   full  splendor  of  all  tropic  dyes. 

Know  ye  the  mighty  forest  trees,  my  trees — 
Twin  with  old  Time  their  leaf-crowned  majesties- 
Giants  by  ages  cradled?     When  at  the  door 
Of  his  white  tent  sat  Abram,  looking  o'er 
The    plains    of    Mamre,    lo!    my    trees,    my    trees, 
My  first-born  children  nursed   I   on  my  knees. 

Giant    Sequoias,   old   are   they,   so   old, 

Yet  still  not  bent  beneath  the  weight  of  years; 

Their  brows   are  leaf-crowned  yet   and   very    fair, 

Their  mighty  arms  are  still  thrust  out   so  bold, 

Catching  the  sunlight  of  the  upper  air, 

Or  daring  the  storm's  strength  as  in  wrath  it  nears. 

And  their  grand  trunks!  the  hills  are  not  more  strong, 

And  scarcely   longer  has   to   them    the  song 

Of  Earth's  full-rhythmed  voices  been  outpoured 

From  sea  and  crag  and  light-winged  bird  that  soared. 

And   my   glad  hills,  loved  of  the  sun  and   air! 

Grand    in    the    changing    lights    of    dawn    and    eve, 
Calm   in   the  yellow  sunshine  of  the  noon, 
Looking   upon   my   valleys   which   are   fair, 
And  on  my  rivers  which  do  flow  in  tune 
With  growing  things,  with  harvests  which  do  weave 
Their  blades  of  g>een  and   fruits  of  vine  and  tree, 
With   bud   and   blossom   which    for   love   of   me 
Make  my  land   beautiful   and   pave  with   sweet 
E'en   the   far   bypaths   of  my   wandering   feet. 
And   my   clear   skies !   how   marvelous   are  they ! 
Deep  as  the  far  stars,  and  so  wond'rous  blue 
They  make -a  cloudless  pathway  for  the  Sun 


Where  he  walks   proudly   from   the  opening   day 
Of  the  Young  Year  until  its  days  are  done, 

With   scarce   a   cloud    for   him   to   journey    through; 

And  he  looks  down  with  calm,  wide-open  eyes 
To  where  my  pines  and  shadowy  palm-trees  rise, 
And   billowy   seas   of   gardens,  bright   with   flowers, 
Fill   the   great   lap   of  all   my   winter   hours. 

And  my   vast   mountains!   lo,   I   sit   with   them, 

As  they  rise  sunward  to  heaven's  silent  blue; 
Their  snowy  mantles  white  as  God's  own  light, 
As  if  were  trailing  there  His  garment's  hem; 

And    from    their    lofty    crags,   in    misty    white, 
Leap  my  grand  cataracts   swift   downward   through 
The   mighty    distances   cleaving   the   air 
Above  the    foreheads   of   my    forests,   where 
Tower  my  cedars  and  my  giant  pines, 
And  wild  beasts  creep  along  their  dusky  lines. 

Ages  agone  the  mighty  glacier  ploughed 

My  fretted  canons,  where  now  softly  sing 
Sweet,  crystal  streams,  and  granite  walls  loom  high 
Like   rocky   firmaments,   their    fronts   embrowed 
With   ferns  and  chaparral;  the  narrow  sky 
Stretches  a   soft  blue  line  the  canon  over, 
The   great,   broad    world   seems    lost    forevermore 
In    those   deep    bowels   of   the   mighty    hills, 
Cradling   tall    forests    and   low-laughing   rills. 

Bride  of  the  Sun  am  I  !     Was  ever  found 

A  bride  more  fair,  with  skies  of  sapphire  light, 

And    brooding   calm,    and   valleys    blushing   red 

With    fruits   and   wine,   and   blossoms   hedging  round 
My  bills  and  gardens  through  the  whole  year,  fed 
By  the  warm,  nursing  air,  and  day  and  night 

Bosomed  in  my  rich  soil,  by  frost  unchilled; 

The    winds,   like   song   of   birds,   with    soft    notes    trilled 

To    melody,    and    my    rich    harvests    spread 

Till  with  their  fullness  I  am  garmented. 

And  lord  of  Seas,  my  mighty  sea,  which  waits 

By    the    white    sands    upon    my    curving   shores, 
Laden    with    fragrance    from    the   lands    of   balm, 
Beating  so  softly  at   my  Golden  Gates, 

Where   broods   the   spirit   of   enduring   calm; 
And    Summer  holds  the   keys   to  all  my   doors; 
Walking   upon    the   sea   or    on   the   land, 
She   finds   but    beauty   shed   on    every   hand. 
And  calm  of  noon  and  calm   of  holy  night, 
And    Time    with    smiling    face   above   his   loom, 
Weaving   his    web    of   days    and    making    room 
For  birth  of  grander  empire  which  shall  rise 
Upon    my    soil    beneath    these    sunset    skies. 

Swing  wide,  O  Golden  Gate  of  mine,  swing  wide! 

Door  of  the  world  art  thou,   where  men  may  come 

And  see  my  glory,  see  and  enter  in; 

Borne    onward    by    the    swift,    inrushing   tide 
Of  mighty  Empire,  come,  for  I  am  twin 
In   my  great   future  with  the  mighty   Past; 

And  here  shall   Freedom   triumph  by  my  seas, 

Strong   as   my   mountains   and   my   giant  trees, 

Unlock  the  doors  of  highest  Destiny, 

For   love   of  blessed   Liberty   and   me. 


Queen  of  Lands. 


IV.      (1882.) 

How  dietli  the  year  in  this  land  of  delight? 

In  blossoms  and  sweetness,  in  sunlighted  sheen, 

In  glory  of  freshness,  in  garments  of  green, 

In   warm  tender   breezes   that   whisper  of  June, 

In  the  clasp  of  the  roses,  'mid  the  breath  of  perfume. 


V.     (1886.) 

Here  are  bird-song,  and  sunshine,  and  flowers, 

And   fair,  tranquil,  tropical  hours; 

Here  Noon  lies  drowned  in  the  sweets 

Of   blooming,   odorous   deeps, 

And  orange  and  olive  and  palm 

Stand    dreaming    'mid    fragrance    and    calm; 

In  sunsets  of  gold  die  the  days, 

Passing    down    into    star-lighted    ways, 

And  summer  bends  low  in  the  West, 

And   lays   her   fair  head   on   the   breast 

Of  the  Year  as  it  dies,  and  she  weaves 

A   shroud   of   soft    grasses   and    leaves. 

There's  no  darkness  or  sorrow  or   blight, 

No   chill   in   the   beautiful   light 

Of    the    days    which    come    at    the    close. 

But   the  Old  Year  sinks  to  repose 

'Mid    freshness   and   blossoms  and  song; 

And    freshness    and    blossoms    and   song 

Usher   in   the   New   Year   at   its   dawn. 


VI.     (1002.) 

O  great-browed   goddess!  Empress  of  the  Seas, 

Whose  light  waves  fringe  thy  golden  garment's  hem, 
Whose  lofty  mountains   and   whose   giant   trees 
Weave    for    thy   brow   a    priceless    diadem 
Such  as  no  other  land  may  proudly  claim: 
How   glorious    shall    be   thy    future    fame, 
For    lo!    the   moving   tide   of    Empire    waits 
To   enter   here   within   thy   Golden   Gates. 

The  rich  soil  of  thy  vast  wide  valleys  lies 

In   shining  gold  of  fadeless  sunshine  rolled, 
The   rains    with    silver   wands    hide    in    thy    skies, 

Waiting  thy  Winter's  glory  to  unfold. 
And    Growth,   how    grandly   do   her    armies    rise, 
How  silently  the  brown  old  Earth's  surprise, 
Following  the  wake  of  the  first  Winter  showers, 
Which   hold    within   their   arms   thy   harvest    dowers. 

Thy  perfect  limbs,  how   fully   rounded  they, 

How  rich  the  milk  of  Plenty  in  thy  breast! 
Splendid    thy   garments    trail    along   the  way, 

By   thy   flower-sandaled    feet  so  lightly  prcst. 
Oh,   Summer  loves  thee,  and   she   folds  her   arms 
About    thee   ever    while    she   gives    her    charms 
Unto    thy    keeping;    wealth    of    olive   trees 
And  orange-bloom  and   fruit,  she  gives  thee  these. 

And  thy  great  vineyards!  How  the  golden  Day 

Lies    dreaming   'mid    their    vines    sun-wrapped    and 
warm, 


And  her  large-lidded  eyes,  how  full  are  they 

Of  beauty's  brightness,  all  undimmed  by  storm. 
Thy  songbirds  sing  through  all  the  happy  year, 
And   thy   wild   cascades,   ever  crystal   clear, 
Weave  their  white   foam  and  silver-flying  mist 
In  garments  fair  as  rose  and  amethyst. 

The  marvels  of  Yosemite  are  thine, 

And  glory  of  vast  forests  wide  and  grand; 
Touching  the  skies,  thy  highest  mountains  shine 

With    coronet    of   sunbeams    which    the   hand 
Of  Night   studs   thick   with  stars;   the  strength  of  hills 
Is  thine,  and  all  thy  being  stirs  and  thrills 
With  their   great   strength,  and   all   thy  valleys  lie 
Bright   in   their  wond'rous   glory  'neath  the  sky. 

And  O  thy  vales !  where  grow  thy  fields  of  corn, 

And   thy   great    valleys   garmented   with   wheat, 
Like  billowy  seas  they  catch  the  light  of  Morn, 

While  o'er  them   pass  the  softly-moving  feet 
Of  the  low  winds  that,  shod  with  breath  of  balm, 
But    faintly   stir  the  pulse  of  blessed   cairn 
Thy   children   love.      And   O   thy   oil   and   wine 
As  plenteous   are   as   thy   year's   full   sunshine! 

O  gracious  Queen!  thy  gifts  thou  givest  free, 
And  giveth  large  as  doth  no  other  land. 

No  suppliant  vain  is  Labor  unto  thee; 

Thou  boldest  countless  treasures  in  thy  hand 

To  give  to  Toil,  and  e'er  thy  smiling  face 

Is   full  of  promise,  and  thou   makest   place 

For  Plenty's  stores  wherever  Toil  abides, 

For   daily   on   the   never-failing   tides 

Of  golden  sunshine  thou  dost  freely  pour 

The  wealth  of  rich  abundance  for  thy  soil. 
When  the  long,  cloudless  summer-time  is  o'er, 

At  the  first  coming  of  the  Winter's  rain, 
Earth  groweth  glad  and   Plenty  laughs  with  life, 
The  buried  seed  awakes  with  quickened,  throbbing  life, 
And  all  the  mellow  landscape  feels  the  thrill 
Of  pregnant  harvests  on  every  vale  and  hill. 

How  fair,  O  Queen  of  Lands!  how  bright  and   fair 
Then  art  thou,  and  how  gaily  thou  art  drest 

In   robes   of  emerald   which   everywhere 

Are  gemmed  with  flowers,  while  upon  the  crest 

Of  thy  round  hills  the  poppies'  gold  is  seen, 

Fit   coronet    for  such   a   gracious   queen; 

And  birds  pour  tides  of  song  along  thy  way 

And  Winter  dreams  within  the  arms  of  May. 

The  future  Queen  of  Freedom's  Empire  thou, 
And  proud  thy  scepter  over  land  and  sea; 
We  see  thy  morrow's  dawning  even  now. 

The  glorious  promise  of  thy  Yet-to-be. 
Within  the  ruts  of  dead  and  vanished  years 
Thy  old  Past  lies,  and  now  the  Present  hears 
The  onward  march  of  Progress  in  thy  gate, 
And  thou  wilt  keep  thy  trust  inviolate. 


J 


California. 


VII.  (1902.) 

Strange,    beauteous    land,    unlike    all    other    lands, 
Monarch  of  vastness,  grandeur  is  thy  dower; 
Thy    giant    mountain   peaks    do   upward    tower, 
Till  Winter  boldly  on  their  summit  stands 
In    frozen    silence,    while    below    him    lies 
A  summer  zone  of  tropic  harvestries. 

O   Wonderland!     The   mighty   "half-world   sea" 

Clasping   the   Orient    and    its   isles   afar, 

Its  white  waves  leaping  as   if  they  would  unbar 

In  every  land   its  hidden   mystery, 

Creep    to    thy    shores    and    murmur    but    of    peace, 

As   if  they'd   hush   all   strife  and   bid   it   cease. 

The   sun   goes   down   upon   thy   sea's   broad   breast, 
And   leaves    thy   loftiest    mountains    all   aglow 
With  wond'rous  light  like  Summer's  overflow; 
Thy   vernal   valleys    do   in   silence   rest; 
How    vast,    how    vast    and    far    they    reach    away, 
As  if  they  zoned  at  once  both  night   and   day. 

O  wond'rous  land!     Land  of  the  Afternoon! 

The   long,    long   ages    they    must    tell    thy    story, 

For   here   shall   be   unfolded    Freedom's    glory; 

For   out   of   Nature's   vastness   shall   come   soon 

Great   men,   grand   men,   kindred  with   mountain   height 

And  mighty  plain,  all  sun-illumined  and   bright 

As  the  unshadowed  sky.     No  room  is  here 
For    moral    weaklings,    who    ever    do    belie 
All    Nature's    grandeur,   all   her   wise   ministry. 
Here,    drinking    in    this    sun-filled    atmosphere, 
The  future  yet  may  see  the  coming  man 
Fulfill  the  highest  purpose  of  God's  plan. 

VIII.  (1904.) 

O  California!     Land   of  golden   light, 

Sleeping  beside  the   seas,   wearing  the  white 

Of  Winter  snows  only  upon  the  crests 

Of  lofty  mountains  reaching  to  the  stars: 

How  sweet  thy  Summer  dreams,  how   full  of  peace! 

Thy  sunset's  gold  is  bright  and   falleth  still, 

Like  shining   river   over   vale   and   hill; 

The   whisper   of  thy   leaves   is   like   a   song, 

Thy   months   glide   brightly   over   flower-clad   ways, 

And  Summer  smiles  through  all  thy  length  of  days. 

What  other  land  can   give  us   gifts  like  thine, 

What  other  land   unto  the   stars  lifts  high 

Its   mountain-walled,   dome-carved   Yosemite, 

Whose  Falls  seem  dropping   from  the  sky's  blue  deep, 

With  shining  rainbows  wrapped  about  their  feet? 

Thy  cloudless  skies !    how  bright  their  wond'rous  blue ! 

Thy   High   Sierras,   O  how   vast   and   grand ! 

A  background    for  the  world   they   seem   to   stand, 

A   rock-hewn   firmament   the   gods  might   dare 

To  climb  in   silence  to  the  upper  air. 

Cool  breezes  flow  from  out  thine  ocean  tides 
Which  ripple  o'er  thy  beaches'  shining  sands. 
And    health    and    balm    are    in    thy    perfect    air. 
The   rose   of   health    is    on   thy    garment's   hem, 
Time  weaves   for  thee  its  sun -filled   diadem; 


Thy  years  of  golden  days  are  sweet  as  song, 
December   wears   the  blessed   guise   of   June, 
Laughs  with  the  flowers  and  keeps  his  heart  in  tune 
With  the  glad   Maytime — the  pathways  of  his   feet 
Are  fragrance-paved  by  countless  blossoms  sweet. 

Thy   valleys   are  like   empires   vast   and  wide, 

Where   pine   and   palm   do   linger   side  by   side, 

Where  through  the  year  each  month  its  harvest  knows, 

And   the  warm   tide  of  sunshine   ever   flows. 

Great   wheat-fields   ripple  like   a   golden   stream, 

Thy  vineyards  with  a  wine-filled   fruitage   gleam, 

Thy   fruits  and   blossoms   greet   us  everywhere, 

And  thousand  birds  with  music  fill  the  air. 

Could    Eden's    world   have   been   more    fair   than   thine, 

More  bright   its   days,  more  gold   in  their  sunshine? 

SEMI-TROPIC  CALIFORNIA.     (1885.) 

The   world    is   sweet   and   dewy-eyed    and    fair, 

The  whole  Year,  crowned  with  blossoms,  sits  within  her 

gates; 

December,    rosy-lidded,   breathes   but    perfumed    air, 
Orange    and    tropic    palms    the    Old    Year's    exit    waits. 
I    wander   out    amid   the   flower-gemmed   paths; 
Bananas   droop   their   branches,   lilies   swing 
White   perfumed    censers,   and   in    golden   baths 
Of   flooding    sunshine,    like    a    scarlet    flame, 
The  humming-bird   is   seen;   gay  roses  fling 
Their    dewy    petals    to    the    wandering    breeze, 
And,  with   a  flutter  like  the  young  heart's   beat, 
The   bright-winged   birds    upon    the   branches    sing, 
Till  all  the  air  is  stirred  to  echoes   sweet. 
The   bees    pass    humming   by    on    drowsy    wing, 
And  like  winged  flowers,  or  drifting  gold,  fair 
White  butterflies  and   golden   ones   sail  on 
Beneath    the    orange-laden    boughs,    and    there 
In   the   soft    shadows   crickets   chirp;   upon 
The  whiteness   of  the  sweet   alyssum's   bloom 
Swings    the    gay    beetle;    in    her    cloth    of    gold 
The  Queen  of  Roses  with  her  royal  lips— 
Which    all   the    winter    days   have    made   not   old- 
Stoops  to  the  purple  of  the  honeyed  lips 
Of    heliotrope;    and    at    eventide 
Eve's  dainty   footsteps  o'er  the   golden   plain 
Of  the  warm  West,  its  sunset  gates  flung  wide, 
Sandaled   with   crimson   and   with   scarlet   flame, 
Pass    down;    then    turns    the   sunset    gold   to    gray, 
And   purpling   shadows  slowly   are  unfurled, 
And  a  soft  hush  through  Nature  steals  its  way, 
Sound  lieth  soundless  on  the  evening  air, 
And   Night's   star-jeweled   gates  close  round   the  world. 

OUR  SUMMER  LAND.     (1895.) 
A  land  of  sunshine,  where  does  grow  the  palm, 
The  orange  ripens  golden  as  its  days, 
The  blossoms  laugh  along  its  shining  ways, 
And  the  whole  year  breathes  blessedness  and  balm. 

What  of  its  mountains  lifted  to  the  skies? 

Snow-crowned  their  summits  and  sun-kissed  their  sides, 
From  which  outpour  the  many  crystal  tides, 

Feeding  the  vales  where  Summer  ever  lies — 


Bride  of  the  Sun. 


Bright  Summer,  knowing  only  blossoming, 
And  ripening  fruits  and  harvests  full  and  free, 
And  song  of  birds,  and  brooks'  sweet  minstrelsy, 

And  where  no  clouds  the  lightest  shadows  fling. 

What  of  its  Winter?     Oh,  'tis  but  a  dream— 
Rose-sprinkled,  sun-crowned,  color-full  and  fair, 
And   emerald-footed,   bathing   everywhere 

Tn  balm  and   fragrance.     Our  winters  gleam 

With  the  warm  sunshine,  revel  in  the  light 
Of  sapphire  skies.     Soft  south  winds  blow; 
The  dun  clouds  gather,  and  then  swiftly,  lo ! 
Winter  is  here,  such  winter  as  we  know- 
Warm  with  the  heart  of  Summer,  no  more  athirst, 
Baptized  one  day  with  rain,  and  through  and  through 
Thrilling  with  waking  life,   waiting  anew 
For  the  glad  sunshine  from  the  sky  to  burst. 

Hoots  stir,  birds  sing,  and  Earth's  laughing  face 
Swift  gathers  beauty,  while  the  grasses  spring 
Blossoms  unfold,  and  butterflies  find  wing, 

And  Winter  steals  the  charm  of  Summer's  gVace. 

BRIDE  OF  THE  SUN.     (1897.) 

O  Love  of  mine!     O  gentle  love  of  mine 

Is    this    fair-bosomed    land,    with    tender    rose 

In  its  soft  cheek,  and  eyes  most  blue,  as  if  ' 

Within    them    lay    the    light-filled    Orient 

With  breath  that  smells  of  musk  and  fragrant  bav, 

And    all    the    scents    of    ever-flow'ring    climes 

Upon    thy   hills    ..looms    the    wild    lilac,    and 

The   poppy's    gold    lies    like    a    sea,   and    all 

The  wild-flowers  lift  their  lovely  heads,  each 

Leaf    a-smile    with    gladness,    as    if    beneath 

Were   hid    a    happy    soul    that    is    beloved 

Of  Beauty.     How  thy  grasses  leap  at  the 

Magic   touch  of  rain,  to  garment   with  soft 

Emerald    thy    bare,    brown    hills,    that    through    the 

Long  Summer  days  have  slumbered  dreamlessly, 

Cradled   in   loving  sunshine.     The   waving  palm 

Drops  his  thin  shadows  in  the  golden  noon, 

Like    long,    light    scimitars    upon    the    soft 

Velvet   of   the   sod.      The   calla   swings    its 

Censer,  filled  with  its  perfumed   incense,  sweet 

As  the  fabled  balm  of  blessed  Gilead; 

While  the  innocent-eyed  violet  peers 

With  wide-open  lids  into  December's 

Face   and   smiles.      But   momently,   ah!   ever 

Constantly,   my   heart    turns    with    reverent 

Love   unto    thy   mountained    heights,    standing    like 

Kingly   Titans   at    Dawn's   open   door,   and 

At  the  Sunset's  threshold,  where  the  sea  throws 

Its   great   arm   about   the   smiling   shore. 

O  mountain  world!     Time  pillows  his  head   upon 

Thy    glorious    crests,    and    old    Eternity 

Doth  whisper  of  the  Past,  while  kneeling  in 

Splendor    are    the    lesser    hills,    worshiping 

Thy  vastness.     O  starry  worlds!     this   voiceful 

Choir   of  hills   joins   in   the  chant  ye  sing 


To  mountained  majesty,  whose  foreheads  grand 

Bare  themselves  to  storm,  yet  front  the  Sun  in 

Glory,    and    clap    their    hands    unto    the    swift 

Tempest,  and  it  trembles  amid  their  pines. 

The   centuries   they    tell   like   some    fair    mm 

Her  beads,  and  moveless  stand,  Sphinx-like,  as  when 

Old   Pan   poured   forth   his   tuneful   notes   to   their 

Unheeding    ears.      Glorious    the    valleys 

Smiling  in  the  Sun  at  their  vast  base/ with 

Sweet  Summer  in  their  hearts,  holding  the  notes 

Of    mocking-bird    and    blessed    robin's 

Song,  which  steal  the  heart  of  Joy  to  make  it 

Fuller   still   of  joyousness.     O  world  of 

Ours !  how  doth  the  Sun  love  thee,  as  thou  dost 

Lie    baptized    in    holy    calm    and    sunny 

Gold.     His   bride  art   thou,  and   he  will   cherish 

Thee  till   Earth  sleeps  breathless   in   the  tomb  of  Time. 

OUR  FAIR  SOUTHLAND.     (1893.)         v  • 

Behold    this    Southland,    'neath    as    perfect    skies 
As  ever  Sun  shines  on,  or  stars  arise; 
Laughing   in    beauty,   redolent    with   bloom, 

ts  Winter  fair  as  is  a  Summer's  noon- 
Where    butterflies    with    fluttering    wing    drift    on 
The  Sun's  warm  tides,  and  the  gay  flowers  don 
Their   brightest   colors,   pouring   nectared   sweet 
O'er   all   the   pathways   of   our   wandering    feet. 
The  hills   grow  golden  with  their  yellow  sheen 
Of  light,  which  ever  the  warm,  ceaseless  Sun 
The   swaying   grasses;    orange   orchards   stand 
Like    emerald    seas,    stretched    out    on    every    hand 
Filled  with  their  yellow  globes,  like  round  moons  spun 

f  light,  which  ever  the  warm,  ceaseless  Sun 
Feeds  with  his  beams,  and  ever  the  low  din 
Of    insect    voice    is    heard,    while    spiders    spin 
Their    webs    of   silver   on    the    growing    grass, 
Where  the  light  footsteps  of  the  breezes  pass, 
Loitering  as  if  they  fain  would  steal 
Some  of  Earth's  sweetness.     Busy  ants  reveal 
Their  sand-built  workshops,  and  the  dead  leaves   fall- 
In  miracle  of  wond'rous  color  all— 
On   velvet   sward,    from   trees   that   yet   have  learned 
Xot  the  sweet  lesson  of  the  Winter  'turned 
To  deathless  Summer.     Luminous  days  are  set 
Color-full   like   the  fire  opal,   and  yet 
Filled  full  of  balm  is  the  Midwinter's  heart— 
Days    in    which    storms    have    never   any   part; 
Days  full  of  rest  fulness  and  Beauty's  soul, 
And    radiant    gladness,    as    if   their*  whole 
Brooded   of   birth   and   miracles   of   growth, 
And    all    the   wide,   sweet    land    were   nothing  loath 
To   drink   its    fill   of   sunshine   and   be   steeped 
In   light,   while  the  sweet   passing  hours   up-heaped 
Roses   'round   them,   and   all   the   birds'   souls   woke, 
Brimming    with    song,    and    from    the   silence   broke 
Till  the  whole  air  with  melody  was  drowned, 
And    trees    chimed    in    with    many    a    whispering   sound 
From    leaves   innumerable.      The   still   noons, 
Golden    with    light,   are    full    of   happy   dreams 


California. 


Akin   to   summer's   brightest;    running   streams 
Syllable    in    music    the    dreams    they    hold 
Of   ripening   harvests    gleaming    in    the   gold 
Of  yellow   wheat   and   corn   and   orange   spheres 
And  amber  wines;  and,  ever  listening,  hears 
The  passing  hour  the  swift  advancing  tread 
Of   Ceres   coming,   by   Pomona   led. 
The  hum   of  bees   December   bends   to  hear, 
Poured    in    soft    murmurs    to    the    waiting    ear; 
In  greenest  meadows  the  sleeek  cattle  feed 
'Mid  the   lush   grasses;   note  they   not   nor   heed 
Midwinter's   presence.      No   mad   moods   has   he 
Of  storm  or  cold  or  elemental  revelry; 
Sandaled  with  blossoms,  lo!  he  passes  here, 
Sun-crowned  and   fruitful,  monarch  of  the  year. 

THE  LAND  WE  LOVE.     (1901.) 

O   Land   of   Sun!   beneath   this   radiant    bint- 
How  fair  thou  liest !  how  thy  mountains  rise 
As    seeking    heaven !      LTpon    their    summits    high 
An  angel's  footsteps  well  might  halt  to  rest, 
\\hile  the  bright   world   lying   beneath   his    feet 
In   golden   glory   did   his   vision    greet. 

No  cloud   is  in  our  heav'ns,  the  deep-blue  skies 
Seem  infinite,  and  the  great  Sun  doth  march 
From  the  far  East  unto  the  West's  wide  door, 
Like   a  proud   monarch   clad   in   robes   of  light, 
And  lo!  his  beams  upon  the  Earth's  broad  floor 
Make  Summer  in  this  land  forevermore. 

She   lies    a-dream   within    our    fruitful    vales, 

She  nestles  where  our  vineyards  stretch  afar, 

Like   wine   the    fragrance   of    Earth's    wond'rous    bloom 

Fills  all  her  senses  till  she  smiles  with  joy. 

And   when   the   rains   come,   O   how   swift    the    feet 

Of  the  young  grasses  as  they  spring  to  greet 

The   glory    of   new    growth!      The    vital    air 

Throbs  with   fresh  gladness,  while  Summer  steals 

Like  a  young  maiden  to  the  Passing  Year, 

Till  his   old   heart   is   gladdened   by   her  smile, 

And,  age   forgotten,  like  a  king  he  stands, 

Crowned   with   the  flow'rs    from    her   own   tender   hands. 

October's    light   is    now   within   our   skies, 

October's   mellow    ripeness    floods    the    air; 

The    shimmering    leaves    are    breeze-touched—pines    and 

palms 

Wave  branches  green,  while  gold-winged  butterflies 
Skim   paths   which   birds   have  paved    with    happy    song, 
And  naught  reminds  us  Summer  days  are  gone. 

THE  LAND  OF  SUNSHINE.     (1896.) 

Land  of  the  Sun !  of  skies  divinely  blue ; 

Of  Summer  dreaming  'mid  her  flowers  and  dew; 

Where   all   the   months   their   rosary   of   days 

Tell  of  the  gold  of  Light's  unclouded  rays. 

The   snow-clad   mounts,  the   elder   priests   of   Time, 

Are   now   uplift   in  majesty  sublime; 

Mantled  in  white,  their   foreheads  in  the  blue 


Of  shining  skies,  their   base   in   sparkling   dew 

Soft    bathed,    while    smiling    Summer,    blossom-crowned, 

Sheds  the  sweet   fullness  of  her   fragrance  'round; 

The  orange  bloom  the  valley's  only  snow, 

And  perfume-laden   all   the   winds  that   blow. 

In   valleys   wrapped    in    grassy   emerald   sheen, 

With  laughing  streams  their  flower-decked  banks  between, 

\\  e  sit  and  dream,  O  heights !  below  thy  crest, 

While   Summer   soothes   us   to   delighted   rest. 

Glad    August    comes    with    the    full-ripened    year, 

The    flooding    sunshine    fills    the    ambient    air, 

And  Nature  lies  in  sweet  content  so   fair, 

Nor    dreams    that    Autumn's    steps    are    drawing    near. 

For  Autumn  is  but   Summer  in  disguise 
In  this   fair  clime  where  it  is  June  alway 
In  its  glad  brightness,  or  the  nursing  May, 
Whose   hands   are   filled    with    flowers,   whose   skies 

Have   wond'rous   deeps   so   warm  and   clear 

That    Growth    walks    'neath    them    ever,    and    does    see 

Each  month  enriched  by  ripened  harvestry, 

Even  when  our  so-called  Winter  cometh  here. 

Our  Winter!     Ah!  how  laugh  its  emerald  vales, 
How   gleam   its   hills   with   golden   poppies'    glow, 
How    fragrant    are    its    orange    blossoms'    snow, 
How  bright  its  roses  bloom,  nor  ever  pales 

The    fair    white    splendor    of    its    lilies'    forms, 
Whose   perfect   fragrance  cheers  us   everywhere, 
Nor  dieth   bird-song  on   its  balmy  air; 
And  when  do  come  the  Winter's  welcome  storms, 

Beauty  is   born  anew,   the  hillsides  smile, 
Life  stoops   to  kiss   the  lips  of  all  the  flowers, 
The  pearls  of  raindrops   through   the   happy   hours 
Shimmer   upon   the    forest   leaves,   the   while 

The   light    winds   breathe    as    if   they   were    asleep; 

The  clouds   hang  tenderly   above  the   land 

As   if   they   were   a    mother's    sheltering   hand, 

And    would     from    harm    the    springing    grasses    keep. 

The  rain,  it  is  a  baptism  of  birth, 
It  ushers  in  Earth's  resurrection  morn, 
And  golden  sunsets  with  rich  color  warm, 
And    Summer's   life   unto   our   waiting   earth. 

December   walks   the   air-ways    of   the   skies, 
And   counts  his   golden   rosary  of  hours, 
His  glad  amen  is  heard  in  Winter  showers, 
From    out   of   which    the   new-born    blossoms    rise. 

Glory  of  color  and  of  growth  are  ours, 
December   as   a   king  his   robes   of  state 
Puts   on,  jeweled   with   flowers,   a   fitting   mate 
For  blooming  June  with  all  her  golden  hours. 

For  not   a  single   leaf   doth   he   cast   off 
That   ever-gracious   Summer   smiling   wore, 
And    richer    are   his    countless    gifts    to    us 
Than  all  the  Summer's   rich,   unnumbered  store. 


The  Land  of  Sunshine. 


II.      (1900.) 

Great  light-robed  land,  all  mountain-crowned   and    fair, 
With  thy  grand  heights  uplifted  to  the  Sun, 
Where  bird  notes  in  melodious  rivers   run; 

Land    blossom-paved,   whose   softly    pulsing   air 
Lies  as  'twere  anchored   in   delightful   dream 
On  seas  of  sunlight,  golden  as  the  day 
When  Summer  walks  unclouded  all  the  way 
From  dawn  to  starry  dusk, 
With    fragrant   smell   of  musk, 

And   orange  scent    within   her   shining   hair, 

And  violet-odors  smelling  fresh  and  sweet 

As  the  rose  anklets  bound  above  her   feet. 

Land  glorious  in  beauty!     Thy  broad  fields 

Are  orchard-nursing  breasts,  while  vineyards  wide 
Drowse  in  the  daylight,  with  their  purple  tide 
Draining  the  sunshine,  which   forever  yields 

Its  ripening  splendor  till  the  soft  warm  Kve 
Drops   down  upon   the  land,  its  starry   eyes 
Filling  with  tender  light  the  far-off  skies- 
Eves   when   the  song   of   bird 
Is   tremulously   heard, 
Falling   within   the   starry   silences, 
In  the  dusk-gardens  where  the  blossoms  sweet 
Baptize   with    fragrance   ev'ry    wanderer's    feet. 

I    love   thy   warm    rich   zone   of   cloudless   light. 
Thy  purple  mountains  lifted  to  the  skies, 
Thy    broad,    ricli    fields    of    endless    harvestries; 

Thy    countless    song-birds,    winging    in    their    flight 
The   golden  air  and   flooding  it   with   song; 
Thy   blossom-nursing  summers   which   do    go 
Flower-laden  to  the  lap  of  Winter,  so 
Sun-kissed   that  'he   doth   seem 
A   sweet   June-laden   dream, 

Perfect   in   beauty,   garmented   in   light, 

With    blossoms    breathing    balm    like    Summer's    breath, 

While  bird-song  unto  bird-song  answereth. 

And  thy  great  Future!     O  it  is  to  me 

Like  some  enchanted   vision  that  doth  hold 
My   fancy  captive;   like  some  epic   told 

By   bard   divinest    while   we   wonderingly 

List  to  the  marvels  that  he  doth  unfold, 
And  the  air  stirs  delightfully,  and  thrills 
With  conscious   gladness   as  each  echo   fills 
Our  list'ning  fancy's  ear. 
Oh,  it  is  near,  so  near ! 

The   wondrous    Future   of  this   land   of   ours, 

And,  empire-shod  and  promise-crowned,  I  see 

Xo  shadow  darken  its  grand  destiny. 


III. 


(1900.) 
nonth  of  sunny  wars 


Summer  has  scarce 
To   walk   before   the   coming    autumn    days 
Are  with  us  here;  yet  still  she  srnileth  sweet, 
And    all    the   pathways    for    her   dainty    feet 
Are  blossom-strewn  and   fragrant  as  the  dew 
Dropped  from  the  chalices  of  June,  when  new 
The   flowers   awoke  to  make   the   whole  world 
And  perfume  all  the  shining  deeps  of  air. 


fair, 


But   in   this  clime  of  ours   fair   Autumn's   face 
Is  twin  with  Summer's,  and  she  lacks  no  grace 
That  sweet  June  wears,  and  even  Winter's   feet 
Walk    Summer's   paths,   and,   wooing,  he  does   meet 
Her  in  the  wood  and  on  the  hillsides  fair, 
And   hand   in   hand   they   wander  everywhere; 
Birds  sing  and  blossoms  smile,  and  breezes  stir 
As  soft    for  him   as   e'er  they   did   for   her. 

And  they  are  wedded  amid  buds  and  bloom, 
And  Winter  seems  not  to  have  reached  the  noon 
Of  joyous  life;  youth   rests  upon  his  brow, 
His    face    is    fair    as    that    of    Summer's    now; 
Age    touches    not    his    form    within    this    clime; 
He  walketh  like  a  young  man  in  his  prime; 
Decay  shrinks   from  him  and  his  way  is   rife 
With    perfect    beauty    and    unfailing    life. 

IV.     (1903.) 

This  perfect  day!     I  sit  me  down 

And  watch  its  light  and  watch  the  sky — 
The  vast,  blue,  cloudless  vault  on  high, 

Without   a   scar,   without   a    frown. 

I    see   the   glory   of   the  trees 

On    which    the   golden    sunlight    rests; 
I  see  the  shining  mountain  crests 

And    catch   the   whisper   of  the   breeze. 

And   lo!     The   little   opening  flower 
Smiles  upward  into  Winter's   face, 
Each  blossom  lending  earth  the  grace 

Of  wond'rous  Beauty's  dower. 

The  waters   flash   beneath  the  sky, 

Enwrapped  in  smiling  silver  sheen, 
A   mirror   the   green   slopes    between, 

And  bright-winged  birds  above  them  fly. 

The  tropic  palms  wave  green  and  fair, 
Dropping  their  shadows  at  our  feet, 
Earth  dreams  of  silence  where  they  meet, 

And   finds  a  quiet  place  for  prayer. 

Our   Winter,   with   bright    Summer's   soul, 
Pours  perfumed  incense  near  and   far, 
It  smiles  like  her  at  sun  and  star, 

Filling  with  sweetness  every  bowl 

Of  opening  lilies  that  we  see, 

Waking  the  happy  birds  to  song 
From  every  day's  resplendent  Dawn 

To  Evening's  silent  mystery. 

O  love!     O  love!     We  find   it  here, 

God's    love    in    every    bush    and    tree 
Which    He  has    formed   so  perfectly 

Within    this    sun-filled    atmosphere. 

Here  all  our  days  are  warm  as  love, 

And,  color  bright,  they  smile  and  bless 
With   all   their   fadeless   loveliness. 

How  can  we  doubt   it  is  God's  love 


California. 


That  makes  them  fair,  that  makes  them  bright 
As  those  first  days  when  Earth  was  young, 
And  earthly  Time  had  just  begun, 

When  all  was  good  in  God's  own  sight? 

Dear  land  of  beauty,  land  so  bright, 

Wrong  should  not  find  a  foothold  here, 
No  sound  of  strife  should  smite  the  ear, 

We  should  pave  pathways  for  the  Right. 


OUT  OF  DOORS  IN  SUNLAND.     (1902.) 

I    see    the    butterflies    within    the    air, 

And   bees   are   buzzing  in  the  sunlight,   too, 

And   beauty   lies   about   me   everywhere, 

From  the  bright   earth  unto  the  skies   so  blue. 

There's  music,  too,  amid  the  whisp'ring  leaves, 

There's  glory  on  the  crests  of  flow'r  and  tree, 

And  wond'rous  'are  the  robes  October  weaves, 
And  light  her  steps  and  full  of  ecstacy. 

Like  a  glad  maiden,  lo!   she  wraps  her  'round 

With  countless  blossoms  bright  with  Color's  sheen; 

Th'  myriad  grasses'  stir  gives   forth  a  sound 
As   the  'soft   breezes   lightly   creep   between 

Their  many   blades;   'tis  but   a  whisper  low, 

Yet   Nature  hears   and  smileth   at  the  voice, 

There's  nothing  still  of  all  the  things  that  grow, 
And  all  things  'round  me  seem  to  cry,  Rejoice! 

How  old,  how  old  the  little  stone  that  lies, 

So  shapely  round  and  smooth,  beneath  my   feet; 

Since  first  was  spread  above  the  bending  skies 

It  has  not  failed  the  opening  morn  to  greet. 

The  long,  long  years  of  Time  the  hills  have  known, 
The  water's  voice  the  ages  all  has  thrilled, 

And  the  glad  chorus  of  the  blossoms,  too, 

Since  Time  began  has  never  once  been  stilled 

In  this  sweet  Summer-World  where  we  abide, 

Where  on  the  hills  the  Morning  lifts  her  wings, 

Golden  with  light   throughout  the  passing  year, 
And  where  in  every  tree  the  glad  bird  sings. 


A  GOLDEN  SUNSET.     (1900.) 

O   ye  grand  mountains!     pillars  of  the  upper   air, 

Last  eve  I  saw  ye  standing  wondrously   fair; 

The  glory  of  God's  touch  was  on  ye,  and   His  light 

Transformed  your  highest  crests  until  they  all  grew  bright 

As  angel  pathway's,  and  I  seemed  to  clearly  see 

The    footprints  they  had   left.     Gold,   and   the   witchery 

Of  Earth's  regal  glory  upon  your  topmost  height 

That  wrapped  your  royal  shoulders.     Gleaming  amethyst 

Was  on  your  shining  foreheads,  and  the  sky  leaned  down 

To   look   into   your    faces,   and   to   lay   the   crown 

Of  Earth's  regal  glory  upon  your  topmost  height 

Ere  it  should  steal  behind  the  curtain  of  the  Night. 


How  glorious  were  ye  when  in  the  distant  West 
Night  laid  her  first  bright  star  upon  the  Evening's  breast. 
Your  purple  robes  flowed  'round  ye,   full  and  warm, 
And  on  your  crest  Light  smiled  as  never  cloud  or  storm 
Could  darken  them  or  make  the  glory  'round  them  pale. 
O  mounts!  ye  are  my  teachers,   and  ye  never   fail 
In  your  divinest  lessons.     Grandeur  and  power 
Breathe  in  their  fullness  'round  ye  as  ye  tower, 
Fronting  the  stars,  and  littleness  is  crucified   as  ye 
Voice  ever  the  omnipotence  of  Deity. 

A  ROYAL  SUNSET.     (1900.) 

The  Sun  kissed  the  Earth  good-night  as  he  stood 
On  the  threshold  of  Eve  afar  in  the  West, 

M  hile  his  smile  lit   with  glory  the  face  of  the  sky 
And   one  crimson   cloud   he  wore   as  his   vest. 

The  Earth  gazing  upward  looked  rosy  and  fair; 

Her  hoary  old  mounts  uplift  to  the  sky 
Were  transfigured  with  beauty  and  color  and  light, 

As  if, sandaled  with  brightness,  th'Lord  had  passed  by  ! 

The  light  breeze  fell  asleep  in  the  cradle  of  Day, 
Not  a  leaf  was  astir;  the  Earth  was  as  still 

As  the  great  soul  of  Silence;  the  spirit  of  Calm 
Had   enfolded  the  whole  world  at   its  will. 

Then  Evening  stole  into  the  deeps  of  the  blue, 
Sowing   the   star-worlds   wherever   she  trod, 

And    Nature    looked    up,    and    in    them    she    saw 
Th'   footprints  of  Creation's  omnipotent  God. 


II.     (1895.) 

The  mighty   hills   are  'round  us,   mountains   grand, 

Mantled   with  glory.     The  soft   air  breathes  on 

Them,   and   opalescent   lights   cradle   their   craggy 

Forms    and    clothe    them    tenderly    with    beauty. 

The  blue  bursts  into   golden  brightness,   fair 

As  the  Sun  when  he,  enamored,  breathes 

His  calm  good-night,  and  'round  the  old  Earth  weaves 

The    splendor    of    his    beams,    melting    in    glow 

Of  rosy  colors,  which,  like  a  river's  flow, 

Sweep  on  and  onward  till  we  only  see 

A    world    transfigured    in    the   mystery 

Of  lights   that    glow    and    pale,  then   sink   away, 

Cradled  in  darkness  with  the  dying  Day. 

TRANSFIGURED.     (1876.) 

.     .     .  O  mountain  heights !  but  yesterday  I  saw  you  stand 
Touched  and  transfigured  by  the  setting  Sun, 
Reaching    far   up   into   the   heavens,   so    grand 
I  deemed  your  crowned  heads  must  wear 
The  glory  ol  the  upper  spheres.     Your  feet 
Were  cloud-wrapped,   and   the   curtained   mists, 
Fold    over    fold,    like    saintly    garments    shone, 
While  through  them,  like  the  gleam  of  amethysts, 
The  molten  tide  of  glory  surged  and  rolled. 


California's  Yesterday,  Today  and  Tomorrow. 


CALIFORNIA'S   YESTERDAY,   TODAY   AND   TO 
MORROW. 

Bright  the  sunshine  shone,  its  splendor 

Touched  the  Summer  earth  and  skies; 

All  the  mountains  stood  resplendent- 
Altars   lit   for  sacrifice. 

Flamed   the   treetops   in    their   brightness, 
And  the  rocks  were  touched  with  fire, 

As  upward  through  heaven's  cloudless  pathway 
Climbed  the  round  Sun  high  and  higher. 

Like  an  ocean  stretched  the  valleys, 

Reaching  to  the  horizon's  rim, 
Save  where   rose   the   grand   Sierras, 

Walling  all  their  vastness  in. 

Here  and  there  were  ranch  and  cottage, 
Bleating   flocks   and   lowing  herds, 

Lonely  shepherds  in  the  silence, 
Only  cheered  by  song  of  birds. 

And  the  Indian  stood  and  worshiped 

Where  his  altar  fires  did  glow, 
Saw   his   God   within   the   sunrise, 

Felt  His  breath  in  breezes'  flow. 

Here   he    reared    the    Missions    olden, 

Planted   olive   tree  and   vine. 
And  his  new-learned  aves  chanted 

At   the   Mission's   sacred   shrine. 

Yet  undreamed  of  was  the  glory 

Of  the  gracious  years  to  be, 
All  unborn  the  mighty  Empire 

That  should  stretch  from  mounts  to  sea. 

Not  till  o'er  this  Land  of  Sunshine 

Were  the  Stars  and  Stripes  flung  free, 

Did  our  germ  of  Empire  brighten 
With   the   flower  of  Liberty. 

Now  the  glory  of  the  ages, 

Fairest   gem   in   Freedom's   crown, 

Is  this  mighty  State  now  smiling 

Where   Sierra's   heights   look   down. 

On  the  wide  and  gracious  vallevs, 

Where  our  emerald  orchards  grow, 

And  the  fruit-crowned  vineyards  glisten 
In   the  golden   sunlight's   glow. 

Here  forever  in  the   future 

Shall   the  sons  of   Freedom   turn, 

Nursed   by   Nature's   grandeur,   shall   they 
All   the   tyrant's  shackles   spurn. 

Here   shall    Freedom's    grandest    triumphs 

In   the  coming  years   be  won, 
Growing    Empire's    steps    shall    hasten 

Hither  toward  the  westward  sun. 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  ANGELS. 

The  days  dawn  beauteously  and  the  sky 

Bends  cloudless  above  the  fields  of  green; 
The   sun   his   golden   lances   flings   between 

The   radiant  blossoms,  as   passing  by 

The  winds  toy  with  them,  lifting  up  their  leaves. 
And   kissing  their  sweet    faces;    Nature   grieves 

For   no   rich   benison   that   is   not   poured, 

And  all  the  mighty  mountains,  skyward  leaning, 

Thrust  their  long,  peak-like  fingers  'mid   the   stars, 
And  liftfjfceir  heads  above  Earth's  cloudy  Itars; 

The   eagle   to   their   utmost   height  "has   soared, 

And    turns    his    face   where   the    full    sunlight    streaming 
Bathes  him  in  Light's  unhindered  atmosphere, 
And   there,   in   the   far  ether,   cool   and   clear, 

He  beats  his  wings  against  the  silent  blue, 

Or  dreams  alono  upon  some  craggy  height 

What  fruits  are  there  that  do  not  glad  our  sight, 

O   land!  sun-loved,  thou   lookest   to   the  skies 

With  eyes  as  clear  as   in   the  planet's  glow, 

With   breath   as    fragrant    as   the   lily's   own, 
With   voice  as   sweet   as   is   the   robin's   tone. 

What   beauty   is   there  that  ye  do   not   know? 

What   blossoms   are   there   that   the  sun    hath    kissed 

In   any   land,   however    fair   and   bright, 

That   ye  amid   your    wealth   of  bloom   hath   missed? 

What  fruits  are  there  that  do  not  glad  our  sight, 

That  tropic  lands  have   nursed  to  ripeness   rare, 
But  we  may  pluck  from  out  our  gardens  fair? 

O    land!     fair    land!  My    Lady 

Comes  down  your  hills  of  green, 
And   weareth  on  her  shoulders 

The  sunlight's   golden  sheen; 
And   on   her  warm,  sweet   forehead 

She  wears   a   shining  wreath 
Of   woven    buds    and    blossoms, 

But,    O    her    face    beneath 
Is   fairer   than   the  lily, 

Is  rosier  than  the  rose, 
No  tinted   daffodilly 

Such   beauty   can   disclose! 

My  Lady  wears  a  sunny  smile, 

So   sweet   it    is,   I   ween, 
June  never  showed  a  fairer  face 

In   eastern   lands   of   green. 
And   when   December   cometh 

She  trips  as  gaily  down 
As  in  the  bright  May  mornings, 

And   wears   as   dainty   gown, 
All   sprinkled   o'er   with   blossoms, 

And   still  her   shining  hair 
Is  golden  as  the  sunbeams, 

And  still  her  cheeks  are  fair. 

O    Lady!     Lady    royal! 

The  Sun  himself  doth  woo 
You  with  his  lavish  kisses, 

Beneath  his  tent  of  blue. 
And  dainty  are  your  garments 


California. 


Of  orange  petals  white, 
And   daintily   your   slippered    feet 

Peep  outward  to  the  light; 
My  Lady  wears  a  lovely  veil 

About  her  shoulders   fair, 
And    golden    sunbeams    pale   beside 

The  splendor  of  her  hair, 
And  never  any  earthly  bride 

Was   ever   half   so   fair. 

IL  ^ 

Mantled  with  gold  and  robed  in  light, 

Serene  and  calm,  behold  she  stands, 
The  glory  of  these  southern  lands, 

With  eyes  of  blue  and  forehead  white 

With  the  sweet  snows  of  orange  bloom; 
Twisted  within  her  sunny  hair 
Are  thousand  buds  and  roses  rare, 

And  'round  her  brightness  and  perfume. 

Her  mountains  lift  their  crests  of  snow 
Above  her  Summer  vales  that  lie 
In  tranquil  dream  beneath  the  sky, 

And   perfume-laden   winds   do  blow, 

Soft-footed    creep    they   'mid   the   flowers, 
And  drink  December's  golden  wine 
Of  blessed  warmth  and  pure  sunshine, 

And  croon  unto  his  cradled  hours. 

The  Sun  her  lover,  and  he  folds 

His  mantle  'round  her  when  the  year 
Is  elsewhere  chilling,  bleak  and  drear, 

And  then  with  tender  clasp  he  holds 

Her  jeweled  hand,  whose  fingers  gleam 
With  diamonds  of  dewy  light, 
And  on  her  breast,  clear,  sparkling,  bright, 

Her  Kohinoor  of  lakes  is  seen. 

When  Winter  takes  his  icy  throne 
Upon  her  lofty  mountain  crests, 
Still  Summer  in  her  valleys   rests; 

Gay  bees  among  her  blossoms  drone, 

And   silver-footed   raindrops   fall, 
And  set  their  busy  looms  astir, 
And  splendid  garments  weave  for  her 

Of  rose  and   emerald,  and  all 

The  blossoms   do   like   jewels   lie 

Amid  her  robes  of  green,  and  burn 
The  poppies'  splendor  as  we  turn 

Our  eyes  hillward;   beneath  the  sky 

Those  "blossom-beacons"  we  may  see, 

As  if  the  rains  had  spilled  the  gold 
Which  the  long,  shining  year  doth  hold, 

Flooding  with  glory  hill  and  lea. 

Her  city^lies  beneath  the  face 

Of  the  grand  mountains.    Here  we  see 
Strong,  great-browed  Progress,  ceaselessly 

Work    for   the   future,   and   in   place 

Of  that  dead  Past  that  lay  asleep, 

And,  dreaming,  never  seemed  to  thrill 
With  high  endeavors,  but  lay  still 

In  the  old  ruts  where  centuries  keep 


Their  stagnant  years,   we  see  uprise 
A  city   fair  as  any  one 
That  lies  beneath  the  gracious  Sun; 

And  here,  crowned  by  her  cloudless  skies, 

'Neath  her  warm  Ocean's  flowing  tides, 

Whose  soft  waves  fringe  her  garment's  hem, 
While  mountains  weave  her  diadem, 

In  growing  beauty  she  abides. 

III.     (1886.) 

I  see  a  city  smiling  in  the  Sun, 

'Tis  one  of  valleys  and  of  emerald   hills, 
And  rolling  river  that  its  green  banks  fills, 

And    mountain    peaks    that    pierce    the    upper    air. 

T  see  a  city  smiling  in  the  Sun, 

Where    tropic    palms    lift    up    their    emerald    crests, 
And  orange  orchards  on  the  glad  plains  rest, 

Where    rarely    shadows    of    the    storm-clouds    come. 

Afar  the  Sea  its  sapphire  length  uncurls, 

And   island   mountains   watch   above   its   blue, 

And    songful   birds    the   clear    air   winging   through, 

Till  Night  drops  down  with  all  its  starry  worlds. 

1  smell  the  fragrance  of  the  orange  flowers, 
The  odor  of  ten  thousand  budding  sweets, 
And,  lo!  my  listening  ears  the  bee's  hum  greets 

No  less  in  Winter  than  in  Summer  hours. 

1  throw  my  windows  wide  to  catch  the  Sun, 

Whose    soft,    warm    kisses    press    December's    lips; 
While  crowding  lilies  through  his  finger  tips, 

He  wakes  the  blooming  roses  one  by  one. 

The  nestling  pinks  and   pansies  ope  their  eyes, 
And  yellow-belled   arbutelons  swing  wide 
In    airy   dances,   as   if  they   were  beside 

Themselves  with   gladness  under  such   fair  skies. 

The   highest    tree-tops    are   alive   with   song, 
The  mocking-bird  has  every   note  attune, 
He   scarcely    for   the   robin   leaveth   room 

While  telling  all  his  gladness  to  the  Morn. 

And    soft    airs   lull   me   in   the   lap   of   Night, 

And  gentle  breezes  bring  me  balm  and  sleep- 
In  restful  slumber  all  my  senses  steep, 

Till   on   the   hill-tops   wakes   the   morning  light. 

IV.     (1887.) 

Her  smiling  face  she  turns  toward  the  sea 

That  gleams  across  the  broad,  sweet  land  bordering 

Her  garment's  hem,  vine-clad  and  orchard-crowned, 

Upon  whose  breast  the  grasses  stir  when 

Kissed  to  billowy  waves  of  verdure; 

And  butterflies,  poised  on  light  wings,  seek  the 

Wild-flower's  heart,   and  sip  the  honeyed   sweets 

From  cups  of  blossoms  with  satin-tissued 

.Leaves,  and  colors  more  than  rainbow. 

The    land 

Huns  down  to  meet  the  sea,  as  if  to  say, 
"  1    love  thee,  let  me  rest  beside  thce,  pillowed 


10 


The  Home  of  the  Fiesta. 


On  sunshine  and  kissed  by  soft,  white  lips  of 
Laughing   waves    that    cling   with   shining   ripples 
To  my  shores." 

Behind  her  purple-shouldered 

Mountains  rise  with  snow-crowned  foreheads,  fronting 
Her  smiling  vales  like  monarch  Titans;  their 
Eyelids'   fringe  the  lofty  pines;  their  throbbing 
Pulse,  the  cartoned  streams  outflowing   from  their 
Mighty  heart  of  rock;  their   frown,  the  awful 
Precipice;  their   garments,   the  sun-lit   ha/e 
Transfiguring   them    in    beauty;  their    smile, 
The  sunrise  and  the  sunset  glory  which 
Warms  the  valley  with  reflected   glow, 
Upon  whose  breast  eternal  Summer  sleeps, 
Kich   in   her   tropical   charms. 

The  winds  touch  her 

But    lightly,   breathing    in    perfumed   whispers, 
And  scarce  a  day  but  she  is  sun-kissed  and 
Flower-crowned.     For  jewels  wears  she  daintily, 
The  lily  white  and  creamy  roses  and 
Royal   fuchsias.     Flames  the  poinsettia 
'Mid  her  tropic  tresses.     Geraniums 
Climb  like  vines  and   wrap  her  in  their  beauty. 
And    countless    orange    groves    breathe    fragrance,    their 

bloom  hanging  like 

Perfumed   clouds   between   her   and   the   sky.     Her 
Red  wines  run  like  the  warm  blood  of  youth  through 
'  Her  veined  vineyards,  and  her  oranges,  like 
Golden   apples  of   Hesperides,   swing 
On  her  emerald  toughs.     Like  the  far  isles 
Of  spice  that   smile   upon   the  tropic  seas, 
Or  emeralds  bright  in  glowing  sunshine  set, 
'Mid  tropic  green  smiles  fair  Ix>s  Angeles. 
And  bright-winged  birds  love  all  her  sunny  air. 
Afar  the  story  of  her  sunshine's  wealth 
Is  told,  and  the  sweet  calm  that  fills  her 
Summer's  noon,  and  her  Winter's  balmy  breath 
Is  sought   for  healing. 

The  world  turns  to  her, 
Jewel  of  the  West,  and  diademed  queen 
Of  sunset.     We  hear  the  rustle  of  her 
Garments'  folds,  and  the  light  stir  of  her  flower- 
Sandaled    feet,   as   turns   she   with   her   voice   of 
Welcome.     Her  touch  is  soft  as  velvet,  and 
Her  hand  is  warm  and  tender  as  a 
Mother's   hand,  and   like  a  lover  woos  she 
All  who  come  to  sun  them  in  her  brightness. 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  FIESTA.     (1896.) 

Upon   these   sunset   shores   shall    Freedom    place 
Her  crown   of   Empire;   here  shall   arise  the 
Cities  of  the   future,  resplendent  with 
The  liberty  which  maketh  great.     The  love 
Of  Freedom  shall  be  strong  as  the  ramparts 
Of  these  eternal  hills,  whose  heads,  pillowed 
Upon  the  world-old  firmament,   for  aye 
Defy  the  earthquake  and  the  thunderbolt, 
And  tell  the  patient  stars  the  story  of 
Their  centuries  of  life.     Passed  hence  the 


Sun-browned  children  of  the  soil  whom   Nature 
Had  so  fondly  nursed  and  fed,  that  here  beneath 
These  skies  the  later  offspring  of  progressive 
Time  should  build  his  fairest  citadels,  and 
Science  light  his  torch,  and  poets  sing,  and 
Modern   Raphaels  find  divinest   power. 
And  statesmen  shape  the  laws  for  human  good. 
And  here  we  resurrect  those  golden  days 
That  pleasure  loved  and  noble  manhood  sought, 
And  our   Fiestas  crown  with   glory  like 
The  Olympiads  of  old,  and  men  shall  come 
From  the  fair  sunrise  to  our  sunset  shores 
To  share  the  Carnival's  gladness  and  delight, 
The  marvels  of  our  clime,  our  bright   golden 
April  days,  upon  whose  breast  Summer  lies 
Sleeping,  crowned  with  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  golden  suns  shine  fair  in  cloudless  skies, 
And  birds  sing  in  the  golden  dawns  and  eves, 
And  all  that's  grand  and  beautiful  in  life 
Beckons  to  us  and  bids  us  be  both  glad 
And  great,  greater  than  old  Hellas,  and 
More  wise  and  perfect  in  all  things  that  pertain 
To  Manhood  and  Beauty's  grace. 
O  glorious  Empire  of  the  Golden 
West !     Time  itself  shall  slumber  in  decay, 
And  the  wide  and  billowy  ocean  cease 
To  surge,  and  the  transcendent  mountains  fall 
Prone  pn  the  sunlit  valley's  breast  before 
Shall  perish  here  the  love  of  all  that  tells 
For  Freedom,  for  beauty  and  perfection. 

ANGELENA.     (1896.) 

She  sitteth  at  her  mountain's  feet — 

Her  mounts  with  crests  amid  the  stars, 
Uplift  atove  Earth's  misty  bars, 

Yet  anchored  in  her  valleys  sweet. 

And  lo!  she  lifteth  up  her  eyes— 

Large-lidded,   gracious   eyes   are   they— 
And  looketh  toward  her  ocean  way, 

Her  ocean   vast  as   are  her  skies. 

And  through  the  future's  open  gate 
She  looks  afar  and  tiptoe  stands, 
Her  flowing  skirts  clasped  by  her  hands, 

And  sees  approaching  Empire  wait. 

And  then  she  moves  across  her  plains; 
Her  trailing  robes  are  very  fair, 
Broidered  with  blossoms  everywhere, 

By  fingers  of  her  winter  rains. 

And  sweet  the  rose-hue  of  her  mouth, 
And  bright  the  splendor  of  her  hair, 
As  suns  were  in  its  meshes   fair — 

The  bright  suns  of  her  golden  south— 

The  suns  she  loves,  for  nestle  warm 

Their  golden  beams  within  her  breast, 
And  peace  and  calm  find  there  full  rest, 

Nor  broodeth    fear   of  cloud   or  storm. 


11 


California. 


And  as  she  walks  men  follow  near, 

And  follow  her  with  loving  gaze, 

And  ever  still  about  her  ways 
Do  fair  and  happy  homes  appear. 

A  girdle  of  such  homes  she  wears; 

The  morning  weaves  them  robes  of  light, 
Weaves  them  in  red  and   gold  and  white, 

And  all  the  colors  Nature  dares. 

From  mounts  to  sea  they  stretch  adown, 

In  every  one  home-voices   swell, 

And  little  children  come  to  dwell, 
And  farther  onward  grows  the  town. 

And   then  her   gracious   hands   she   spreads — • 
Her  loving  hands,  so  warm  and  white, 
Jeweled   with   days   of   golden   light — 

Above  her  many  children's  heads. 

And  one  hand's   rosy  finger  tips 

She  lays  upon  her  Mountain's  side, 

And  one  on  Ocean's  silver  tide, 
And  then  the  whisper  from  her  lips: 

"O  waiting  Empire!  fair  with  hope, 

Let  here  thy  halting  footsteps  stay 

In   my  wide   valleys   which   do   lay 
Between  my  sea  and  mountains'  slope. 

"You  cannot  dream  how  fair  these  vales, 
How  rich  with  harvests  manifold, 
Where  never  doth  the  year  grow  old, 

And  where  its   beauty  never  pales. 

"Through  all  the  year  my  birds  do  sing-, 

Through  all  the  year  my  suns  do  shine, 
Ripen  my   fruits  and  flows  my  wine, 

And  Summer  never  taketh  wing. 

"And  Freedom's  soul  is  on  my  heights, 
And  in  my  aisles  of  pine  and  palm, 
Where  broodeth  ever  Nature's  calm, 

And  gleaming  world-cathedral  lights." 

Then    Empire    smiled    and    stepped    within 
Her  bloom-lined  valleys;  seas  of  gold 
And  seas  of  harvest  round  her  rolled; 

It  seemed  an  Eden  without  sin. 

And  there  beside  her  templed  shrines, 

Star-lighted   and   star-crowned   she  stood, 
In    perfectness    of   womanhood, 

And  Empire  halted  on  her  lines. 

And   here   beneath   her   orange   trees, 

Beneath  her  lightly-swaying  palms, 

Within  her  noon  of  golden  calms, 
Between  her  mountains  and  her  seas, 

Shall   Empire  stay,  and   she  shall  see 

Glad  Freedom  ply  her  loom  anew, 

And   golden   threads   draw   through   and   through 
The  warp  of  human  destiny. 


ON  A  HOLLYWOOD  HILLTOP.     (1904-) 

The  far  horizon's  glowing  line  I  see, 

Shining   above   the   placid   ocean's   deep, 

Where  the  light  waves  come  creeping,  half  asleep; 

The  winds  are  hushed,  scarce  stirs  the  leaf-clad  tree. 

The  great  wide  plains,  outstretched  before  mine  eyes, 
Tree-dotted,   fair,   with   sleeping  hills   around, 
With  the  bright  glory  of  the  sunlight  crowned; 
Above,  the  cloudless  glory  of  the  skies. 

The  slumb'ring  grasses  in  their  dark  earth-bed 
Are  dreaming  softly;  soon  will  they  awake, 
And  with  their  emerald   glory  they  will  make 
A  magic  carpet  for  our  feet  to  tread. 

The  rain  and  sunlight!     Cunning  fairies  they, 
And  busy  weavers  of  the  beautiful; 
We  only  wait  the  rains  to  give  us  full 
Rich  patterns,  growing  day  by  day 

To  perfect  loveliness;  the  hills  will  breathe 
Of  freshness  when  the  glorious  raindrops  fall, 
The  lovely  flowers   will   answer  to   their   call, 
And  in  the  loom  of  Silence  they  will  weave 

Such  glory  round  us  when  the  shining  sun 
Follows  the  rain  and  wakes  the  sleeping  earth, 
And  million   grassy  blades   are  given  birth, 
Making  Earth  fair  as  when  Time  first  begun. 

We  wait  the  rains  that  bring  earth  growth  and  life, 
Then  come  with  me  and  look  from  this  far  height. 
When  comes  the  rain  the  poppies  will  unfold 
And  scatter  round  us  all  their  wealth  of  gold, 
The  bannered  trees  will  wave  before  our  sight, 

Rain-washed  and  fair,  their  many  shining  leaves 
Clapping  their  hands  in  gladness  when  the  breeze 
Comes   hand   in  hand   with  sunshine  to  the  trees, 
While  Growth  sits  by,  and  silently  she  weaves 

Grass,  bud  and  blossom  into  perfect  form. 
No  sound,  no  noise,  yet  still  forever  spring 
The  grass  and  vine  and  every  growing  thing, 
Up,  up,  still  up,  the  offspring  of  the  Storm. 

This  land  we  love,  with  mountain  heights  and  vales 
That  lie  outstretched  as  if  God  had  unrolled 
The  mighty  distances,   smoothed   fold  on   fold, 
And  left  the  mountain  heights  to  guard  the  dales, 

Is  fair  indeed  beneath  the  shining  skies; 
But  when  the  rains  do  harvest-laden  come, 
And  Growth  her  tireless  labor  has  begun, 
It  wears  the  beauty  of  a  paradise. 

We  love  it  then,  we  love  it  even  now, 

With  its  soft  airs,  its  calm,  its  golden  days, 

Its    fragrant    nights,   silvered   with   bright   moon-rays, 

As  if  God's  hand  rested  upon  their  brow. 


12 


Los  Angeles  to  Chicago. 


The  clouds  are  hanging  dark  within  the  sky. 

The  winds  are  cradled  in  their  silent  sleep; 

from  out  these  clouds  will  not  the  Storm-God  creep 

And  ope  their  fountains  as  he  passes  by? 

Our  Father,  send  us  rain  and  make  the  earth 
Glad  with  Thy  bounteous  blessing  in  its  fall. 
And   full  Te  Deums  shall  rise  from  all 
As  we  behold  fresh  Growth's  rejoicing  birth. 

Sound  the  loud  paeans  of  praise,  thanksgiving  and  joy, 
The  morning  has  come  and  the  rain  pours  down  from  the 
sky 

In  plenteous   fullness;  the  clouds,  like  God's  mantle,  do 

over  us  lie, 

And  each  leaf-tongued  thing  upon  hillside  and   plain 
Shall   join   with  our  hearts   in   a  thankful   refrain 
For  God's  blessing,   bestowed  in  the  bouunteous   rain. 

LOS  ANGELES  TO  CHICAGO.     (1886.) 
We  stretch  our  hands  across  the  seas 

Of  waving  grass  and  springing  flowers, 
O  city  grand  beside  the  lake, 

And  greeting  send  from  sunny  bowers. 

We  waft  you  breath  of  orange  bloom, 

We  send  you  fruits  of  ruddy  gold, 
And   wines   that   sparkle   in   the  light 

Of  the  warm  sunshine  that  they  hold. 

Here,  where  the  trellised   roses  climb, 

And  press  their  lips  on  Winter's  cheek, 
And  days  pass  like  a  dream  away, 

In   fragrant  morns  and  evenings  sweet, 
We  turn  to  greet  you,  and  we  send, 

In  orange  bloom  and  orange  gold, 
Such  story  of  our  sunny  clime 

As  any  words  could  not  have  told. 

In   them   our   golden   sunshine  caged 

Gleams  through  the  yellow  of  their  cheeks; 
Of  tender   warmth   and   breezes   mild 

The  fair,  white,  fragrant  blossom  speaks. 
Our  tempting  wines  their  story  tell 

Of  lands   as    fair   as   those  of  France 
Or  cloudless  Italy,  in  whose  fields 

The  gay  and  merry  peasants  dance. 

The  land  is  fair,  its  gates  are  wide, 

And  California  beckoning  stands 
To  those  of  winter-frozen   climes, 

With   Summer's  warmth   in   both   her  hands. 

CALIFORNIA  AT  ST.  LOUIS.  (1887.) 
[The  following  impromptu  lines,  road  by  Mrs.  Otis  at  the 
press  banquet  given  in  Armory  Hall,  St.  Louis,  on  the  even 
ing- of  Sept.  28,  18S7,  during  the  National  Encampment  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Republic  in  that  city,  were  written  by  hc-r 
after  arriving  at  the  hall  and  before  the  banquet  began:] 

Our  California,  azure-eyed  and   fair, 

With  golden  sunbeams  for  her  crown  of  hair; 

Her   blood    the    rich,    warm    wines    that    crimson    all    her 

breast, 
Her    breath    the    orange    perfumes    'neath    her    hillsides 

pres't; 
Land  of  the  Sun,  by  western  gates  ajar, 


Set  with  the  jewel  of  the  evening  star; 
With  broad,   fair  acres,   whose  great  harvests  stand 
\\  aiting  each  month  the  busy  reaper's  hand ; 
Land  of  broad  valleys,  on  whose  shores  shall  stay 
The  march  of  Empire  on  its  westward  way: 
From  her  great  heart,  sun-warmed  unto  its  core, 
She  sends  you   greeting,  and  her  bounteous  store 
Holds  she  in  keeping  for  the  Nation's  sons; 
tor   those   storm-weary,   and    for   him   who  comes 
Searching  for  health,  her  hand,  outstretched  and  free, 
Holds  every  good;  and  all  her  pulses  be 
Loyal  and  true. 

O  great  Grand  Army !  who 

Saved  for  her  sons  and  for  the  whole  land,  too, 
The  Flag  of  Freedom,  all  its  stars  still  there, 
Within  the  azure  of  its  fields  so  fair: 
She  sends  you  greeting,  every  pulse  astir 
With  feeling  while  clasping  hands  with  her 
Who  gave  us  Blair  and  Lyon,  whose  great  soul 
Passed  on  for  Freedom.     One  of  that  great  whole— 
The  matchless  Uxiox — she  her  greeting  sends; 
Proud  of  your  deeds,  rejoicing  in   the  might 
Of  the  Grand  Army,  greeteth  she  tonight 
You  one  and  all,  a  bannered  host  of  braves, 
Loyal  to  right,  who  saved  for  Freedom's  own 
The  Flag  we  love.     Mightier  than  king  or  throne 
Ye  who  brought  peace  and  freed  the  land  from  slaves. 


FAIR  WESTLAKE.     (1898.) 

I  look  from  out  my  window  and  I  see 

The  dimpled  lake  reflecting  sky  and  tree; 

A  world  of  beauty  lying  in  the  sun, 

And  all  the  brightness  that  the  day  hath  won. 

How  cool  the  shadows  that  about  it  teem. 
Its  placid  waters  lying  in  a  dream 
Of  happy  stillness,  while  th'  encircling  steeps 
Are  mirrored  brightly  in  its  azure  deeps. 

This  placid  lake,  it  lieth  still  and   fair, 
A  dimple  on-  the  face  of  Nature,  where 
She  sleeps  serenely,  or  gleaming  like  a  gem 
Set  there  within  th'  glorious  diadem 

She    wears   so   proudly,   with    such    wondrous   grace, 
Above  the  splendor  of  her  smiling  face. 
The  lovely  park  is  garmented  and  green 
With   robes  of  tender   grasses,   while  between 

Their  emerald   folds  the  odorous  blossoms  peep, 
Smiling   in   color    from   each   lovely  steep, 
Guarded  by  bended  trees  with  leaf-clad  arms 
That   fold  the  Summer  in  such  windless  calms. 

She   never   wakes   to  turbulence  and   storm, 
But  breathes  serene  and  smiling  with  her  warm 
And  tender  hand  like  a  soft   rose-leaf  to  her   face 
Lifted,  as  if  to  keep  within  their  place 


13 


California. 


Her  golden  locks  of  sunbeams  which  do  fall 
In   warm  and  shining  fullness  over  all, 
Her  mountain  shoulders  and  her  far,  wide  sea, 
And  the  broad  beauty  of  each  smiling  lea. 

I  love  to  sit  within  the  park  and  look 

At  Nature's  face,  as  'twere  some  open  book 

That  God  had  writ,  such  wonders  I  do  find 

Of  charm  and  beauty  where  the  broad  paths  wind. 

Dropping  sometimes  unto  the  water's  brink, 
Where  skies  lie  mirrored,  as  if  there  the  link 
'Twixt  heaven  and  earth  were  hidden,  and  the  door 
Were  just  ajar  through  which  we  reach  the  floor 

Where  angels  tread,  and  then  they  onward  go 
Where  palms  and  flowers  and  emerald  grasses  grow, 
And  hills  slope  downward,  rioting  in  bloom, 
And  all  the  air  is  drowned  in  rich  perfume. 

O  life  is  sweet,  while  musing  here  we  sit 
And  winged  with  light  the  passing  hours  do  flit, 
And  lovely  blossoms  smile  into  our  eyes, 
And  overhead  are  bending  cloudless  skies. 

The  leaves,  breeze-touched,  do  clap  their  many  hands, 
The  crystal  streamlets  shine  like  silver  wands 
As  they  flow  lakeward,  rushing,  leaping  down, 
Sparkling  and  bright  and  wearing  ne'er  a  frown. 

Lilies  are  moored  upon  each  shadowed  pool, 
And  there  dim  lights  are  falling,  sweet  and  cool, 
Upon  the  waters,  which  do  seem  to  lie 
Hushed  and  a-dream  beneath  the  cloudless  sky. 

Great  beds  of  flowers,  like  happy  souls  at  rest, 
Lie  charmed  and  still  upon  the  green  slope's  breast, 
And  palms  wave  brightly  in  the  shining  air, 
And  peppers  rise  like  grand  domes  green  and  fair. 

The  eucalypti  thrust  into  the  blue 

Their  tall,  straight      shafts,     pierced     by  the     sunshine 

through ; 

Bananas  wave  their  fronded  plumes  in  air, 
And  like  winged  jewels  floating  everywhere 

The  many  butterflies,  with  noiseless  flight, 

Sweep  through  the  air,  while  song-birds  meet  our  sight, 

And  all  the  year  seems  like  a  day  in  June, 

Earth,  sky  and  water  in  unbroken  tune. 


IN  WESTLAKE  PARK.    (1901.) 

O  days  of  joy!     I  sit  and  view 

The  sunlight  fall  like  rain 
From  the  deep  heavens  above  so  blue — 
So  old   and   yfi    forever   new — 

Upon  the  fair  green  plain. 

The  lake  before  me  lies  outspread, 

All  dimpled  o'er  with  light, 
The  leaf-clad  trees  above  my  head, 
As  to  the  living  sunshine  wed, 

Turn  golden  to  my  sight. 


And   happy  song-birds   fill   the  air, 

Or  twitter  'mid  the  trees, 
And   blossoms   open   everywhere, 
And  fragrance  steals  around  them  there, 

Soft-footed  as  the  breeze. 

Within  the  sky  one  faint  white  cloud 

Like  angel's  wings  I  see; 
About  it  teeming  fancies  crowd, 
While  winds  are  hushed  nor  breathe  aloud 

Their  message  unto  me. 

Before  me  lovely  palm-trees  rise, 

And   eucalypti   tall, 
As  beck'ning  to  the  bending  skies, 
Like  silent   high  priests   in   disguise, 

They  tower  high  o'er  all. 

Beside  the  tropic   palm  the  pine 

Stands  dreaming  in  the  sun, 
And  sombre  cedars  fall  in  line, 
And  cacti  girdled  with  sunshine 

Stand  motionless  and  dumb. 

The   tender    grasses    never    die, 

The   roses   ever   bloom, 
The  spotless  lily's  golden  eye 
Turns  upward  to  the  smiling  sky, 

While  all   the  earth  makes   room 

For  countless  blossoms  to  unfold, 

And  on  the  park's  wide  breast, 
Bathed   in   the  nursing   sunlight's   gold, 
Our  world  of  Nature,  never  old, 

In  fadeless  youth  does  rest. 

The  soul  of  song  is  hidden  here, 

I  feel  it  in  the  streams 
That  pour  their  shining  waters  clear 
Into  the  lake,  and  fill  my  ear 

Like  lullaby  of  dreams. 

I  hear  it  in  the  sighing  trees, 

As  million-leaved   they  stir 
At  the  soft  whispers  of  the  breeze, 
Which  finds  a  voice  in  all  of  these — 

Each  leaf-tongued  worshiper. 

And    Care   slips    by    as   here    I    dream, 

And  Joy's  own  face  I  see, 
Visions  of  Hope  steal  in  between 
Each  shadow  like  a  glad  sunbeam, 

And  weary  doubts  do  flee. 

II.     (1902.) 

The  trees,  the  great  high  priests  of  Nature,  stand 

About  me  here  on  every  hand, 

Their  swaying  leaves  drop  rain  of  shadows  down, 

While  on  their  crests  the  sunshine  as  a  crown 

Rests  gloriously;  the  flowers  look  up 

Like  angel  faces,  while  the  lake's  full  cup 


Elysian  Park. 


Of  crystal  waters,  like  another  sky, 

Holds  floods  of  sunshine;  the  light  waves  drift  by, 

Kissed  by  the  breeze  and  moving  silently, 

Like  things  of  life,  as  if  sweet  Joy  a-dream 

Lay  floating  drowsily  upon  the  stream. 

The  hills  rise  round  us  here,  home-crowned  and  fair. 

And   mountains   are   behind   them   everywhere, 

Seeking  the  skies;  how  far  they  upward  lift 

Their  sunlit  crests!  the  clouds  below  them  drift 

When  storms  arise,  as  if  the  Storm-King  there 

Unfurled  his  banners.     But  sometimes  the  air 

Burns  in  the  golden  sunset;  then  we  see 

Transfigured   mountains,   all   gloriously 

Aflame    with    light,    like   piles    of    amethyst, 

All  sun-encircled  and  by  Color  kissed 

Into  new  glory;   then  they  upward   rise 

Like   flaming  altars   to  the  bending  skies, 

And  this  fair  park  lies  like  a  threshold  grand 

Ot  some  wide-open  door  to  Fairyland. 

y/  ELYSIAN  PARK.     (1901.) 

Fair  lies  thy  lovely   face  beneath  the  sky, 
Kissed  by  the  golden  sunbeams  and  by  dew, 

And  by  the  breezes  as  they  wander  by, 
Light-footed,  all  thy  winding  pathways  through. 

Thy  hills   rise  upward,   emerald-clad   and   fair, 
Green  forests  drop  cool  shadows  on  their  sides, 

Bright  blossoms,  toss  their  fragrance  everywhere, 
And  rippling  bird-song  on  each  zephyr  glides. 

The  gracious  Day  looks  smiling  from  thy  heights, 
Noon  decks  herself  with  brightness  on  thy  breast, 

And   Eve  comes   softly  with  the  starry  nights, 
As  in  thy  tree-girt  chambers  to  find  rest. 

CATALINA.     (1895.) 

O  Summer  Isle!  asleep  upon  the  blue 
Of  Ocean's  breast,  the  clear  and  dimpled  seas 
Creep    softly    to    thy    silver    sands,    pressing 
Them    as   lightly   as  a  young   babe's   lips    its 
Mother's  cheek.     Thy  rounded  hills,  grass-clad  and 
Color-flecked,    are   eloquent    of   beauty; 
Veined  with  fair  valleys  and  many  canons, 
Emerald-lipped,  where  tiny  rills  sing 
Ceaselessly,  and   glad   birds  carol  to  the 
Morn,  and  ever  the  gay  butterfly  does 
Traverse,  winged  with  beauty,  paths  of  shining 
Sunbeams.     Summer  fills  all  thy  full  year  of 
Golden  dawns  and  dewy  eves,  and  twinkling 
Stars  lean,  tender-eyed,  above  thee  from  thy 
Clear  deeps  of  skies.     The  oak  and  sombre 
Pine  clasp  hand  with  tropic  palm; 
The  banyan  tree  thrusts  out  its  thousand  arms, 
Catches   the  nursing   sunlight    for  its   million 
Leaves,  and  with  its  many  limbs  makes  its  own 
Forest— a  dense,  wooded  deep,  which  shadows 
Haunt   forever.     The  oak,  child  of  the  gray 
Old  centuries,  spreads  its  cool  emerald 


On  all  thy  hills.     Thy  gray  sea-walls,  rock-ribbed, 

Front  the  eternal  seas,  with  here  and  there 

Bright  wild-flowers,  like  a  smile  upon  their 

Stony  lips.     Facing  the  harbor's  blue  sits 

Avalon,  rose-lipped  and  lily-crowned,  and 

Full-breath'd  with  fragrance.     The  winds  lie  hushed  and 

Sleeping  in  the  sheltering  arms  of  her 

Fair  hills,  dreaming  of  summer  calm  and  rest. 

Like  things  of  life,  the  light  skiffs  sail  thy  seas, 

Companioned  by  the  sunbeams,  swiftly  gliding, 

As  o'er  smooth,  liquid  sapphire   floors, 

The  dimpling  waters   laughing  at  their  sides, 

And  murmurous  music  breathing  in  our  ears. 

O  Summer  Isle!  bride  of  the  Sun  art  thou, 

And  jewel  of  the  seas.     We  love  thee  well, 

For  thou  art  Beauty's  soul  and  Summer's  heart. 

UNDER  THE  OAKS. 

(Berkeley,  1894.) 

The  oaks  are  here  above  me,  century 
Old,  yet  not  hoary,  but,  gnarled  and  strong,  their 
Giant  arms  knotted  and  vigorous,  stout 
To  do  battle  with  the  tempest,  and  to 
Beat  the  winds  like  playthings,  catching  them  'mid 
Their  boughs,  which  leap  with  them  into  mid-air, 
Then,  as  the  winds  pass  on,  send  with  them  a 
Swirling  host   of  leaves,   flying  like  mad   furies 
Where  the  tempest  leads.     But  today  the  winds 
Breathe  softly,  scarce  stirring  the  drowsy  foliage; 
The  sky  is  one  vast,  shining  sapphire,  with 
The  Sun  set  in  its  heart.     The  Earth  is  like 
A  tesselated  floor,  flecked  with  sunshine 
And  thick  with  shadows.    The  brook  flows  silver-tongued, 
Low-voiced  and  musical  beside  me, 
Gurgling  like   happy   infancy.      And   here 
The  gay  dandelion  curtsies  to  me, 
Bright  as  of  old,  when  I,  a  little  child, 
Dreamed   it   a   golden   star  dropped   amid 
The  meadow  grasses.     The  daisies  nod  their 
Heads  as  if  in  playfulness.     The  tall  and 
Sombre    pines    stand    like   cathedral    spires,   or 
Titan  fingers  pointing  to  the  blue,  the 
Sun  touching  their  tops  with  glory.     The 
Butterflies  wing  swiftly  by  me  in  their 
Soundless   flight,   a   bit   of   color   gladdening 
The  air.     The  happy  flies  flit  in  and  out 
From  shadow  into  sunshine.     The 
Striped  caterpillar  crawls  lazy  in  the  sun; 
Birds  make  gayest  twittering,  and   Nature 
Smiles  while  all  things  voice  her  gladness.     A  blush 
Is  on  her  cheek,  and  she  is  donning  now 
Her   robes  of  emerald.     The  hills  are  drawing 
Mantles  of  bright   green   about   their  shoulders, 
Pinning  them  with  gay  blossoms  such  as  the 
Bee  loves;  and  the  merry  sunbeams  dance  about, 
And  kiss  in   very  wantonness,  and  the 
Coy  breezes  whisper  soft   words  like  lovers. 
I  wonder  if  all  this  stirs  the  old  oaks' 
Hearts,  and  sets  them  to  throbbing  while  dreaming 
Of  their  youth,  so  long  vanished.     Do  they 


V 


California. 


\Vitli   undiscovered   lips   pour  out  their   hearts 

Into  the  ready  ears  of  brook  and  leaf, 

Of  blossom,  sky  and  star?     O  giant  Sphinxes 

Of  the  Forest !     ye  are  eloquent  in 

Silence,  dumb  but  to  human  ears,  ye  grand 

And  ever-voiceful  orators  of  Time ! 

SANTA  BARBARA  AT  SUNSET.  (1876.) 

On   rocky  hillside,   resting  in  the  sun 

We  sat  and  gazed. 
Blue  skies  were  bending  overhead, 
And  such  a  picture  at  our  feet  was  spread; 
The  valley  lying  like  a  sunbeam's  smile, 
Afar,  like  bulwarks  of  a  world,  a  pile 
Of  ragged  mountains.     Sunbeams  darted  down 
And  kissed  them,  and  though  old  as  Time,  and  brown, 
They  blushed  a  rosy  red  from  foot  to  crown, 
Then  stole  in  lovely  hues  of  violet 
And   amber  shades,   and   purple  shadows  wet 
With  the  kisses  of  white  mists  creeping 
Across  the  channel  in  a  veil  of  mist, 
Changing  now  to  opal,  now  to  amethyst, 
Rose  the   far   heights   of   Anacapa's   isle, 
And  Santa  Cruz,  where  Mount  Diablo's  crest 
Scorns   Nature's  smiles  and   Nature's  wild  unrest. 


II.     (1886.) 

Beside  the  sea  she  sits  with  calm,  fair  skies, 

With  emerald  robes,  flower- j eweled  in  their   folds 
Of  dewy  grasses,  with  her  radiant  eyes 

Turned  to  the  South,  where  shining  seas  expand 
And  island  mountains  front  the  shoreward  land. 
Rising  like  mighty  Titans  from  the  deep, 

Their  garments'  hem  the  lightly  curling  crests 
Of  laughing  billows,   which   in   murmurs   creep 

And  lie  in  ripples  where  in  beauty  rests 
The  tinted  seashell,  in  which  the  murmur  low — 
As  'twere  some  wordless  story  of  the  great  Sea's  heart- 
Sounds  on  in  pauseless,  unremittent  flow. 
The  breath  of  orange  floats  adown  her  vales, 
And  roses  pour  their  incense  to  her  air, 
And  flowery  perfume  fills  her  lightest  breeze, 
And  bee  and  bird  are  singing  everywhere 
Through  all  the  year  beside  her  Summer  seas. 

SANTA  BARBARA  THEN  AND  NOW.     (1887.) 

Long  years  ago,  warm  nestled  in  the  arms 
Of  hills  encircling,  and  lying  calm 
And  still  within  the  lap  of  sunshine, 
Wearing  jewels  fair  of  wild  sweet  blossoms, 
And  the  dewdrops  hid  in  lilting  grasses, 
With   fragrant  bj-eath  of  lily  and  of  rose 
Filling  the  air  with  perfume,  and  the  voice 
Of  birds  pouring  melodious  song  o'er 
The  bright  length  of  valleys  and  in  the  tree- 
Tipped  canons,  where  leaping  waterfalls  joined 
In  harmonious  symphony  with  blue 
Bright  skies  above  her  like  a  sapphire  dome, 
Lay  dreaming  Santa  Barbara.     Beneath 


Her  red-tiled  roof  dwelt  the  senora  and 
Dark-browed  Spanish  don,  and  senoritas 
With  their  midnight  eyes  shining  like  starry 
Dusk.     The  fiery  bronco   sped   across  the 
Plain,  bearing  his  rider  with  sombrero 
Crowned,  with  the  heavy  spur  upon  his  booted 
Heel,  with  which  he  woke  the  untamed  fury 
Of  his  steed,  until  he  flashed  like  lightning 
Down  his  way,  yet  answered  ever  the  steady 
Hand  upon  his  bridle-rein. 

The  great  world 

Then  was   far  away.     Its  noisy  traffic, 
Its  tumultuous  life,  its  giddy  whirl 
Of  pleasure,  and  its  cruel  avarice 
Stirred  not  this  quiet  land.     Here,  'neath  these  oaks 
That   for  long  centuries  the  Sun  had  nursed 
And   the   light   breezes   kissed,   might   Rip   Van 
Winkle  in  his  dreamless  slumber  slept,  and 
Waked  and  found  no  change.     Above  him,  white  and 
Still,  might  have  watched  the  Mission  walls,  and  their 
Evening  chimes  have  been  his  soothing  lullaby. 
The  growing  vines  mayhap  their  interlacing 
Tendrils  would  have  woven  into  a  roof 
Above  him,  and  the  squirrel  reared  his 
Little  mound,  a  soft,  fresh  earth-pillow  for 
His  head.     But  noise  of  builder's  hammer  would 
Have  disturbed  him  not,  nor  any  human 
Hand  of  Change.     The  skies  would  shine  above  him 
Sunlighted  through  the  day,  starlit  by  night, 
While  still  he  breathed  unconscious  perfume. 
The  walled  adobes,  gray  and  old,  were  built 
For  the  centuries,  and  the  glad  Children 
Of  the  Sun  who  dwelt  within  them  were  full 
Of  sweet  content.     The  noisy  wheel  of 
Progress  rumbled  not   for  them.     To  sit 
Within  the  sunshine's  golden  flood,  and  bathe 
Themselves  in  its  warm  splendor;  to  watch  the 
Hills  with  changing  glory  crowned,  and  see  afar 
Their  grazing  herds,  or  in  the  warm-browed  noon 
To  steal  in  wide  veranda's  shade  the  cool 
Siesta,  or  watch  at  times  the  cock-fight 
in  the  plaza's  space,  or  fling  the  sure 
Riata  when  manly  sports  were  rife,  and 
Then  to  worship  at  some  holy  shrine 
Within  the  Mission's  walls,  and  traffic  once 
A  year  or  so  with  the  merchant  ships  touching 
These  shores— this  was  enough  for  them.     This  wealth 
Of  sunshine  and  this  fragrant  air,  these  lordly 
Acres,  all  impressed  by  foot  of  alien 
Interloper,  was  all  they  cared  for,  while 
Marching  Empire  halted  at  their  gates,  nor 
Sought  for  entrance. 

But  the  years  since  then  have 
Brought  swift  changes,  and  Santa  Barbara 
Lies  today  like  a  rich  jewel  in  the  sun.     The 
Hand  of  Change  has  polished  her  and  set  her 
In  the  golden  rim  of  Progress.      Fair   falls 
Her  sunlight  as  in  olden  days;  green  are 
Her  hills  as  when  by  Spaniard  trod;  as  full 
Of  perfume  all  her  flower-strewn  ways; 


Santa  Barbara. 


Richer  her   fruits  that  ripen  in  the  sun; 

Fairer  the  homes  among  her  gardens  set. 

The  world  has  touched  her,  o'er  her  threshold  passed, 

Life  thrills  through  all  her  veins,  and  hand  in  hand 

She'll  walk  with  Change,  while  happy  homes 

Grow  on  her  breast  like  flowers. 

SANTA  BARBARA. 
Sunset  Musings.     (1884.) 

I  see  a  city  by  the  sea,  and  on 

Its   mountained    forehead's   front   is   falling  the 

Crimson  gleam  of  sunset  light,  as  'twere  a 

Spirit's  wing  just  touching  it  in  passing. 

The  valleys  green  rest  at  the  hillside's   feet, 

And  the  sweet  soul  of  Fragrance  multiplied 

Hides  in  their  thousand  flowers.     The  sea  holds 

Up  its  mirror  to  the  sun,  and  the  stars^ 

Nestle  in  its  deeps  unruffled,  rimmed  round 

With  curving  shores,  while  on  its  channeled  breast 

Do  fairest  islands  sleep,  whose  lofty  peaks 

Curtain  the   farther  seas   from  curious 

Vision,  and  when  the  day  is  done  they  flame 

Like  altar-fires  lit  by  the  sun  departing. 

How  soft   the  breezes  whisper  to  the  seas! 

How  sweet  their  breath  upon  the  quiet   land! 

In  lightest   dalliance  toy  they  with   the 

Leaves,  then  kiss  them  into  silence  as  they 

Pass,  breathing  a  balmy  lullaby.     The 

Olive  shimmers  in  the   fading  light,  and 

The  gold-sphered  orange  hangs  upon  its  boughs 

A  miracle  of  sweetness.     As  if  the 

Trailing  robes,  all  perfume-laden,  of  some 

Fair  goddess  swept  through  her  garden  ways,  her 

Roses  drown  the  air  in  fragrance,  and  her 

Myriad   flowery   forms   answer  the 

Far  stars  in  number.     Summer  sits  dreaming 

In  her  warm  Winter's  noon,  while  Winter  comes 

Disguised  in  June-like  brightness.     Fair  Santa 

Barbara,  Nature  doth  wear  thee  on  her 

Breast,  of  all  her  jewels  manifold  the 

Fairest  and  most  priceless. 

UNDER  A  PACIFIC  SKY.     (1877.) 

I  lay  beneath  a  sapphire  sky 

Through   which   great   golden  sunbeams  fly, 

Through  which  sweet  birds  with  downy  wing 
Make  paths  of  song  and  warbling; 

'inrough  which  the  zephyrs  dance  and  kiss 
Me  into  dreamy  drowsiness; 

And  Fragrance  steals,  and  from  her  wings 
A  world  of  perfumed  sweetness  flings; 

And  all  along  the  shining  beach 

The  foam-fringed  waves  their  circles  reach. 

Far  off  the  cloud-like  islands  lie, 
Wrapped  in  the  blue  of  sea  and  sky. 


And  shining  through  the  golden  gleam, 
Before  me  sun-kissed  hillsides  beam. 

Behind  them,  reaching  to  the  sky, 
Great  purple  heights  of  mountains  lie, 

And  smiling  in  the  golden  rain 
Of  summer  sunshine,  rests  the  plain; 

And  all  along  the  valley's  calm 
Stretch  eucalypti,  oak  and  palm. 

And    fair,   the  emerald   hills  between, 
Lo!  Santa  Barbara  sits  a  queen. 

CASTLE  'ROCK. 

In  the  warm   splendor  of  the  South, 
Where  golden  Summer  suns  are  hung, 

Facing  the  open  channel's  mouth, 

Beside  which  mountain  isles  are  strung; 

Resting  upon  the  broad  blue  deep, 
Like  rubies  in  the  sunset  glow, 
Or  gates  of  amethyst  hung  low 

'Twixt  Ocean  and  the  horizon's  sweep- 
Rises  upon  the  curving  shore, 
Above  the  beach's  yellow  sands, 

Old  Castle  Rock.     The  billows  roar, 
Or  touch  its  feet  with  silvery  wands 

Of  rippling  waves;  the  sea-birds  spread 
White  wings  within  the  tranquil  blue 
Where  the  year's  sunbeams  filter  through 

From  cloudless  skies  spread  overhead. 

Towards  the  sea  its  gray  sides  lean, 
With  many  a  scar  and  hollowed  cave, 

As  if  some  secret  were  between 

Its  stony  heart  and  Ocean's  wave; 

Rent   from  the  green  height  of  the  land, 
Like  some  old  storied  Sphinx,  whose  gaze 
Pierces  the  distance,  through  the  maze 

Of  sunny  deeps,  we  see  it  stand. 

Behind,  within  the  valley's  calm, 

Where  perfumed  morns  and  noontides  rest, 
And  eucalypti,  oak  and  palm 

Drop  cooling  shade  upon  its  breast, 
And  purple  heights  of  mountains  rise, 

And  lovely,  sun-kissed  hillsides  gleam, 

Fair  Santa  Barbara  sits  a  queen 
Beneath  these  bright   Pacific  skies. 

THE  CHANNEL  ISLANDS. 
(Santa  Barbara,    1890.) 

Across  the  bright  blue  channel's  breast 

Fair  islands  sleep  upon  the  wave, 

Whose  shores  the  shining  waters  lave, 
As  in  Love's  baptism  their  crest 
On  the  blue-bosomed  skv  does  rest. 


17 


California. 


O  mountainecl  isles!  the  sky  leans  down 
And  pours  its  tides  of  sunshine  round, 
A  golden  mantle   for  your  breast; 
Brooks  leap  in   laughter,  silver-like; 
The  opal  distance  gleams  and  glows, 
The  ripples'  kisses   softly  smite 
Your  Summer  shores,  while  tints  of  rose 
Melt  into  clear  and  shining  blue 
All  the  wide  ocean  spaces  through. 


0  LAND  OF  SUN!      (1903.) 

O  Land  of  Sun,  O  Land  of  Light, 
Of  glorious  vale  and  mountain  height, 
Where   Night's   stars  twinkle  in   the  blue, 
And  shine  on  us  the  whole  year  through, 
Scarce  dimmed  by  clouds  or  veiled  by  storm: 
Night  smiling  as  our  sun-filled  morns — 

Our  sun-filled  morns !     Oh,  who  may  say 
What   light   and   beauty   crown   each   day, 
What  blossoms  brighten  all  the  land 
With  color  waves  on  ev'ry  hand, 
What  seas  of  fragrance  flow  a7id  flow 
Whichever  way  our  steps  may  go? 

O  Sabbath  Land!     It  seems  to  me 
Ye  kneel  in  worship's  reverie; 
In  such  a  land  of  light  and  calm 
The  ear  must  hear  the  angel's  psalm, 
Must  hear  the  echo  of  God's  word 
Which  the  pure  air  of  Eden  stirred 

When  God  looked  on  Creation's  face, 
Each  thing  created  in  its  place, 
The  smiling  Sun  within  the  sky, 
The  mighty  mountains  lifted  high, 
And  swaying  in  the  gentle  breeze 
The  tall  and  glorious  leaf-clad  trees. 

And  then   a  bird's  note  sounding  clear 
Within  the  fragrant  atmosphere — 
How  sweet  and  full  the  song  it  sang, 
As  through  the  listening  air  it  rang, 
And  fuller  was  the  air  with  balm 
As  Nature  listened  in  the  calm 

Of  that  glad  day  to  that  first  song 
From  feathered  throat.     As  borne  along 
Above  the  flowers,  each  lifted  face 
Seemed  smiling  with  an  added  grace, 
And,  Light  of  all  light,  there  God  stood, 
And  this  fair  earth  pronounced  He  "Good." 

And  it  is  good,  and  this  fair  land, 
Which  stretches  to  the  Ocean's  strand, 
Is  Earth's  best  land,  her  fairest  place, 
Which  she  so  tenderly  doth  grace 
With  beauty  and  with  grandeur;  high 
Her  mountains  rise  unto  the  sky — 


Her  vales  like  empires  are  outspread, 
Her  giant  trees  above  our  head 
Tower  like  great  Titans.     Th'  soft  air 
Is   filled   with  sunshine   ev'rywhere, 
And  O   to  be,  just  be,  is  bliss 
In  land  so  beautiful  as  this! 

WINTER  HERE  AND  THERE.  (1902.) 

In  the  far  East  the  Storm-King's  angry  tread 
Shakes  the  great  forests,  while  the  boughs  o'erhead 
Writhe  like  the  arms  of  demons  in  the  blast 
Of  his  keen  breath;  their  leafy  treasures  cast 
On  the  dead  Earth  are  hidden  'neath  the  shroud 
Of  Winter's  snows;  the  winds  scream  loud 
As  if  in   fury;  no  song  of  bird  or  bee 
Breaks  the  sad  notes  of  Nature's  litany. 

The  pendant  icicles  the  Frost-King  leaves 

On  every  roof-— the  frozen  sheaves 

Of  Winter's  harvest,  cold  and  white — 

They  mock  the  glimmer  of  the  noonday's  light. 

The  stars  shine  clear  and  still  within  the  blue 

Of  snow-wrapped  Night,  as  if  they,  too. 

Were  shivering  and  mourned  the  Summer  gone, 

While  breathing  but  the  breath  of  chill  and  storm. 

But  here  the  days  are  gloriously  fair, 
Flooded  with  sunshine  is  the  golden  air, 
The  flowers  burst  into  full  and  perfect  bloom; 
The  air  is  filled  with  song,  and  maketh  room 
tor  bird  and  bee  and  bright-winged  butterfly, 
And  clays  there  are  all  cloudless,  when  the  sky 
Bends  like  a  shining  sapphire,  and  the  Sun 
Shines  as  November  and  the  June  were  one. 

O   Land  of  Sun!  of  bird-song  and   of  flowers, 
How  gladsome  are  thy  so-called  Winter  hours, 
Thy  emerald  grasses  jeweled  with  the  dew, 
Thy  fragrant  roses  blossoming  anew, 
Thy  lilies  paving  pathways  for  our  feet, 
Thy  tides  of  song  forever  flowing  sweet, 
No  wild  winds  rave  amid  thy  leaf-clad  trees, 
No  frozen  Winter's  maddened  revelries. 

ON  THE  BEACH.     (1903.) 

I  sit  upon  the  silent  shore 

And  look  the  great  wide  waters  o'er; 

Afar,  afar  across  the  tide 

I  see  the  sun-kissed  island's  side, 

And  leagues  beyond  the  waters  roll 

To  the  far  silence  of  the  Pole. 

But  here  is  sun  and  here  is  light, 
And  seas  of  blue  and  seas  whose  white 
Foam-crested  waves  just  seem  to  glide 
In  laughing  gladness  with  the  tide, 
And  demon  storms  find  here  no  place 
In  all  the  shining,  sunlit  space. 


This  Fair,  Stceet  Land  We  Love. 


The  golden  Noon  a-dreaming  lies 
Beneath  the  splendor  of  the  skies; 
I  think  I  see  her  amber  hair 
Floating  upon  the  water  there, 
As  she  with  outspread  arms  lies  low 
Within  its  cradling  overflow. 

The  kindred  fields  are  very  fair, 
The  mountains  reach  the  upper  air, 
And  God's  own   glory  seems  to  lie 
Upon   the  wide-embracing  sky, 
And  softly,  softly  roll  the  seas, 
Scarce  breathing  their  antiphonies. 

The  rosy  Morn !     'Tis  here  I  deem 
It  first  might  waken  from  its  dream 
That  it  was  dreaming  in  the  East, 
When  stars  were  round  it  and  a  feast 
Of  silence,  folded  in  the  white 
Of  silver  gleams  of  coming  light. 

I  turn  my  eyes  shoreward  and  see 
The  beauty  of  the  leaf-crowned  tree, 
The  lovely  hills  that  quiet  rest 
So  fair  on  Mother  Nature's  breast; 
I   see  the  flowers  unfolding,  too, 
Nurtured  by  sunlight   and  the  dew. 

And  far,  so  far,  the  plains  are  spread 
As  are  the  boundless  skies  o'erhead, 
And   all  the  world   is   fair  with  light, 
And   changing  colors,  gold  and  white, 
And  glowing  red  and  amethyst, 
And  silver  of  the  sunset  mist. 

The  changing  hours  of  Day  do  here 

Seem  heads  of  gold  dropped   from  the  clear, 

Fair  skies  o'erhead.     Morn,  Noon  and  Eve 

Such  wondrous  patterns  here  do  weave! 

The  mounts  like  jasper  walls  do  rise, 

The  seas. seem  seas  of  Paradise. 

And  there  the  palms  do  lift  their  heads, 
And  here  the  emerald  pepper  spreads 
Her  wondrous  branches,  which  are  swung 
Full-leaved,  with  clustering  jewels  hung. 
Nature  we  feel  is  here  so  true, 
So  beautiful  unto  the  view. 

And  so  we  sit  beside  the  sea 
And  hearken  to  its  ministry; 
We  see  the  sunset's  crimson  lights 


Glow  warm  upon  the  mountain  heights, 
We  see  the  purple  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  vales  and  treetops  tall. 

But  O  the  wondrous  sunset  bars 

Of  gold  and  crimson  where  the  stars 

Will  soon  come  out !     Sweet  Day,  good-night, 

You  have  been   fair,  have  blessed  our  sight. 

And  here  beneath  these  evening  skies 

How  near  seem  gates  of  Paradise! 


THIS  FAIR,  SWEET  LAND  WE  LOVE.     (1897.) 

O  great-browed  Land!  majestic,  beautiful, 

With  thy  grand  forehead  lifted  to  the  stars; 
Thy  face  the  face  of  youth,  fair,  wonderful 

With    glory.     O   tender    face!     No   frown    mars 
Its  sweet,  calm  beauty,  and  thine  eyes  of  blue 

Hold  heaven  within  their  glance,  without  a  cloud 
To  dim  their  summer  brightness;  flow'rs  blossom  new 

Through  all  the  year  upon  thy  breast,  and  the  loud 
Winds  are  hushed,  and  here  but  sweet  peace  and  calm 

Breathe  in  thy  sheltering  arms,  and  thy  full  lap 
O'erflows  with  harvests,  and  no  thought  of  harm 

Steals  o'er  our  senses,  for  ne'er  dost  thou  wrap 
The  mantle  of  the  Thunder  round  thy  breast, 

Nor  gird  thyself  with  lightnings.     O  so  sweet 
Thy  tender  touch !     Thou  givest  to  us  rest, 

Dost  pour  its  perfume  on  our  weary   feet ; 
Thy  golden  days  slip  past  us  like  a  dream 

Filled   full  of  song,  and   fragrance  and   delight. 
Time  holds  his  tides  for  us  upon  the  stream 

Where  only  sunny  Beauty  pours  its  white, 
Full  radiance.     The  soul  of  Day  we  feel 

Within   its  light,  a-dream,  a-dream  with   bliss; 
Just  peace  and  happy  tenderness  do  steal 

To  glad  the  world  with  Nature's  loving  kiss. 
Peace  and  perfume  and  endless  Summer  days, 

And  great  glad  mounts  uplifted  to  the  Sun, 
And  plains  and  hills  and  blossom-laden  ways, 

Until  the  golden  year  its  course  has  run, 
And  calm  of  sea,  and  smiling  calm  of  land, 

And  twilight  melting  into  softest  balm, 
And  moons  of  Night  with  stars  on  every  hand, 

And  orange  tree   and   tropic   waving  palm — 
These  are  thy  gifts,  O  blessed  land  and  fair! 

We  drink  thy  sunshine  as  we  drink  thy  wine. 
We  love  thee  as  thou  art,  and  we  would  share 

With  the  wide  world  thy  loveliness  divine. 


19 


(Brasses  an6 


'Owarm-fyued  ^Passion- Flower,  loved  of  the  Sun." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  ORANGE  TREE.  (1886.) 

Swing  out,  O  golden  globes  amid  the  trees, 
In  the  bright  glory  of  December  days! 
The  fabled  apples  of  Hesperides, 
Which  gods  partook  of  in  their  days  of  ease, 

While     wandering     through     those     garden,     flower- 
strewn  ways, 

Were  not  more  golden  than  the  fruits  we  know, 

Which  our  warm,  smiling  winter,  blossom-crowned, 
Kisses  to  ripeness  'mid  the  glossy  leaves 
Of  orange  boughs,  which  the  bright  sunshine  weaves 

Into  cool  emeralds  'hove  the  sweet-breathed  ground. 

How  rich  the  perfume  that  the  Winter  air 

Drowns  in  delicious  fullness  all  the  day; 
And  on  what  odorous  flowers  our  footsteps  fall, 
And  through  the  trees  how  oft  the  glad  birds  call, 
As  though  December  were  in  sooth  the  May. 

And  through  the  flowering  limes  the  wild  bee's  hum 

Falls  in  delicious  drowsiness  of  song, 
And  in  the  aisles  begirt  with  orange  trees, 
The  golden  globes,  touched  by  each  passing  breeze, 

Sway  like  to  bells  by  fairy  fingers  swung. 

To  the  tired  dwellers  beneath  eastern  suns, 

Where  hoary  Winter  wraps  the  Earth  with  snow, 

And  tempests  fill  the  hollows  of  the  skies, 

Well  may  ye  seem  an  earthly  Paradise, 

O  sunlit  land  which  Summer  loveth  so! 


THE  GREAT  SEQUOIAS.     (1901.) 


\l 


O  would  that  I  could  read  your  story,  giant  trees, 

As  old  almost  as  Time!     In  his  young  morning's  hour, 

Out  from  the  Earth  ye  sprang — the  passing  centuries 
Have  watched  your  growth,  and  the  angry  tempest's 
power 

Held  ye  in  arms  as  mighty  as  the  gods  of  old; 

Nations  have  passed  and  tribal  peoples  vanished  quite, 
New  nations  have  upsprung,  new  histories  been  told 

Since  first  your  full-leaved  boughs  did  greet  the 
morning  light. 

Yet  still  as  glorious  ye  stand,  as  green  and  fair, 
As  in  Time's  olden  centuries  ye  proudly  stood; 

Old  as  the  mountains,  breathing  the  same  sweet  air, 
Like  deathless  monarchs  of  the  mighty  hills  and  woods. 

And  shall  ye  long  as  Time,  O  wondrous  trees!  endure 
As  Earth's  immortals,  old,  yet  still  forever  young, 

Your  giant  trunks  uplifted,  so  steadfast  and  sure 
As  if  your  boughs  on  heaven  itself  were  hung? 

O  storied  trees!     O  mighty  giants  of  the  wood! 

Children  of  centuries !    Yet  still  more  deathless  far 
Than  ye  is  Man,  and  we  who  'neath  thy  shade  have  stood 

Shall  outlive  all  things  else,  time,  earth,  and  sun   and  star. 


THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  TREES. 
I   dreamed  a  dream,  a  dream  that  I 
Was  standing  'neath  a  sunlit  sky, 
Each  flower  around  me  lifted  up 
A  sweetly-fragrant,  dew-filled  cup, 
And  morning  in  the  bright  East  lay, 
The  nursling  of  the  waking  Day. 

The  robins  fluttered  in  the  wood, 
The  lofty  mountains  wore  a  hood 
Of  wondrous  colors,  soft  as  light; 
Afar   the  ocean   flashed   its   bright 
And  dancing  waves  of  silver  sheen; 
The  broad  vast  valleys  lay  between 

The  place  I  stood  and  that  wide  sea — 
The  mirror  of  immensity. 
And  then  methought  below  me  stirred 
A  something  neither  beast  nor  bird, 
A  something  neither  man  nor  maid, 
And  yet  most  gloriously  arrayed. 

It  stole  from  out  the  tree-top  high, 
Unfolded  wings  as  if  to  fly, 
And   lifted   up   a    face   more    fair 
Than  ever  human    form   did  wear; 
Like  shining  suns  its  wondrous  eyes, 
Its  words  like  lute-strings'  melodies. 

Its  robes  were  of  a  golden  sheen 
Like  that  the  fluttering  leaves  between, 
And  its  sweet  smile! — an  angel  fair 
Could  no  diviner  sweetness  wear; 
And  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  trees 
Broke  into  whispered  melodies. 

And  then  the  form  drew  near,  and  I 
Scarce  dared  to  breathe,  so  wondrously 
It  poised  itself  above  me  there, 
Like  some  bright  spirit  of  the  air, 
Or  like  a  star  so  wondrous  white 
It  seemed  to  blossom  into  light. 

And  then  it  spoke.     Low-toned  and  pure 
Its  words  fell  round  me  as  they'd  lure 
My  heart  to  gladness  and  to  peace — 
To  thankfulness  that  would  not  cease: 
"Daughter  of  Earth,  I  come  to  thee, 
The  living  soul  of  yonder  tree. 

"I  fill  its  branches  and  its  leaves, 
Each  sound  they  make  my  finger  weaves, 
And  I  am  here  to  glad  the  sky, 
To  glad  the  winds  that  pass  me  by, 
To  set  my  crown  on  hillsides  fair, 
And  pour  my  blessings  everywhere." 

And  then  he  gently  laid  his  hand 
Upon  the  trees  and  on  the  land, 
The  gleaming  skies  above  him  bowed, 
The  winds  no  longer  breathed  aloud, 
But  hushed  as  in  a  rev'rent  mood 
To  silence  all  that  solitude. 


20 


MONARCHS  OF  A  CALIFORNIA   FOREST. 


Flower  Songs. 


"God  through  me  blesses  all  the  land, 
Pours  out  His  wealth  on  every  hand; 
I  give  you  shade,  I  give  you  rain, 
I  help  to  clothe  the  hills  and  plain; 
Then  spare  the  trees,  they  are  your  friends 
Which   God   in   gracious   mercy   sends." 

His  voice  was  hushed,  and  then  T  woke, 
And  from  the  tree-top  near  me  broke 
A  glad  bird's  notes,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
It  filled  the  morning  atmosphere. 
And  then  I  thanked  God   for  the  trees 
And  all  their  blessed  ministries. 


FLOWER  SONGS.     (1879.) 

There  are  beneath  my  window  growing 

Such   fragrant  clusters  of  December's  flowers, 

All  the  fresh  brightness  of  the  young  June  showing, 
Fair  as  the  children  of  warm  Summer  showers. 

They  nod  their  heads  and  whisper  secret  things 
To  the  soft  breezes  as  they  silent  pass; 

I  almost  look  to  see  their  unfledged  wings 
Hid  in  the  emerald  of  the  growing  grass 

Which  clusters  round  them  there — wings  which  the  touch 

Of  some  strange  power  in  Nature  hid 
Shall  yet  unfold;  nor  would  I  wonder  much 

Were  there  a  soul  beneath  each  petaled  lid. 

Sometime,  when  moonlight  fills  the  silent  Night, 
And  starlight  rains  its  beauty  on  the  air, 

And  the  great  Sea  drops  kisses  on  the  white, 

Pale,  wave-washed  sands  stretching  so  cold  and  bare — 

When  all  the  world  is  flooded  with  the  sweet 
And  fragrant  incense  of  all  budding  things, 

Such  time,  I  fancy,  that  it  will  be  meet 

For  these  fair  blossoms  to  put  on  their  wings. 

One  night  the  moonbeams  poured  a  silver  rain 
On  the  green  earth,  and  breezes  stirred, 

All  winged  with  silence,  when  again 

I  either  dreamed,  or  else  I  really  heard 

A  sound  steal  through  my  window — music  low 
As  the  soft  murmur  in  the  seashell  sighing, 

And  then  I  saw  a  long  line  come  and  go 

Of  tiny  forms,  all  sunny-winged  and  flying. 

Such  lovely  sprites !     Such  dainty,  fairy  things ! 

One  wore  a  lily  for  her  charming  dress, 
And  like  a  veil  about  her  slender  wings 

Fell  the  bright  gold  of  many  a  shining  tress. 

'Ihey  filled  the  room,  they  swept  around  me  there 
Like  a  bright  cloud  tinged  with  the  golden  ray 

Of  Summer's  morn,  and  all  the  moonlit  air 

Grew  sweet  as  the  bloom-scented  breath  of  May. 


And  music  sweet  as  all  the  song  of  birds 

Which  ever  since  bright   Eden's  day  have  sung, 

Like  a  great  wave  of  song  the  silence  stirred 
Till  e'en  the  stars  in  listening  silence  hung. 

Scarlet  Pasaion  Flower.     (1887.) 

O  warm-hued  Passion  Flower!  loved  of  the  sun, 
Lifting  thy  starry  eyes  to  meet  its  gaze, 

With  face  as  holy  as  the  kneeling  nun's, 

Devotion  looks  from  'neath  thy  glowing  lid, 

And  holy  meaning  in  thy  heart  is  hid, 
As  Nature's  priestess  stand'st  thou  'mid  her  ways. 

Purple  Passion  Flower. 

What  meaning  dost  thou  hold  of  Calvary? 
Its  thorny  crown  within  thy  holy  breast, 
Its  cruel  nails  and  binding  cords  are  pres't. 
Dost  thou,  a  silent  witness  'gainst  our  sinful  race, 
Stand  through  the  ages,  lifting  up  thy  face? 
Or,  to  thy  blessed  leaves  while  drawing  near, 
Still,  "Father,  forgive  them,"  may  our  spirits  hear, 
And  looking  deep  within  thy  mystic  eyes, 
Behold  the  shadowed  hope  of  Paradise? 


Seaweed. 

Oh,  what  rare  beauty  manifold 

Is  hidden  in  the  sea! 

The  mermaids   join  in  happy  laughter, 

Their  brows  all  crowned  be 

With  seaweed  flowers  of  shape  untold; 

The  Sea-King  cometh  after 

His  love,  and  finds  her  beauteous  head 

Wearing  its  aureole  of  red 

And  gold  ;  her  beauty's  grace 

Is  hidden  by  a  web  of  lace 

Wrought  of  the  tesselated  leaf 

Her  deft  hand  gathered   from  the  sheaf 

Of  floating  seaweed;  like  a  spar 

Framed  from  the  bright  beams  of  a  star, 

It  lay  before  her  intertwined 

With  all  the  colors  that  the  mind 

E'er  dreamed  of;  the  sunset's  light 

Fell  on  the  waves  and  sank  from  sight, 

And  its  bright  colors  must,  I  ween, 

Have  dyed  her  lace's  glowing  sheen 

While  dropping  its  fine  threads  between. 

Wild  Pink  and  Alfileria. 

Sweet  flowers  !  the  hillsides  love  thee,  and  their  breasts, 

Warm  in  the  flooding  sunshine  of  the  Winter's  day, 

Nurse  thee  in  tenderness,  till  your  blossoms'  crests 

Clothe  them  in  beauty  and  strew  the  way 

With  smiling  presence  and  warm,  tender  light 

For  the  Young  Year's  footsteps,  as  he  comes  to  greet 

The  tropic  splendor  of  our  sunny  skies. 

Amid  the  grass  ye  lift  your  faces  sweet, 

Like  the  fair  beauty  of  some  little  child 


21 


Trees,  Grasses  and  Flowers. 


Playing  at  hide-and-seek  amid  the  blades 

Of  green  alfileria,  whose  purple  smiles 

In  lovely  blossoms  in  the  loneliest  glades 

Of  changeful  March,  till  e'en  his  face 

Grows  wonderful  in  loveliness,  and  dear 

Tis  like  a  god's,  all  flower-crowned  and  fair; 

His  garments  sunshine,  and  the  emerald  web 

Of  growing  grass,  all  jeweled  with  the  rare 

Sweet  wild-flowers    by  the  warm  sun  fed, 

And  sprinkled  with  diamonds  by  the  soft,  glad  rain, 

Whose  veil  of  clouds  hides  for  but  brief  space  the  face 

Of  the  clear  skies  and  wealth  of  warm  sunshine. 

Scarlet  Hibiscus. 

I  think  the  Sunset,  jealous  of  your  flame, 

Did  pluck  its  crimson  glory  from  your  stem, 

And  there  above  the  amber  of  the  West, 

A  glowing  ruby  from  its  diadem 

Has  laid  it  shining  on  the  dead  Day's  breast. 

The  Pansies. 

Oh,  you  darling  pansies! 

With  your  meek  little  faces, 

And  your  airy,  fairy  graces, 

Filling  the  garden's  quiet  places, 

I'd  really  like  to  kiss  you, 

And  oh !  I  really  wish  you 

Knew  how  very  much  I  miss  you 

When  I  fail  to  see  you  in  your  garden  bed. 

Heigh-ho,  you  darli.ig  pansies! 
You  quicken  all  my  fancies. 
Oh,  how  the  soft  winds  love  you! 
How  sweet  the  birds  above  you 
Sing  royal  music  to  you, 
As  if  they  really  knew  you 
Were  happy  fairies — do  you 
Not  dance  at  night  until  you 

See  the  early  coming  of  the  golden  dawn? 

Here's  one  yellow-breasted, 

And  it  is  purple-crested, 

And  with  sunshine  'tis  invested. 

Its  bended  head  is  rested 

Upon  a  Mushroom's  shoulder; 

And  some  secret  it  has  told  her, 

And  its  look  is  growing  bolder. 

Does  the  Mushroom  love  the  pansy — is  that  what  it  said  ? 

Here  I  kneel  and  bless  you, 

While  loving  winds  caress  you, 

And  all  the  flowers  profess  to 

Joy  in  your  happy  faces, 

In  which  they  »ee  the  traces 

Of  charming  human  faces — 

Of  happy  children's  faces 

That  are  fair  and  sinless  as  when  the  world  was  new. 

Here  is  one  whose  eyelids 
Veil  eyes  of  royal  splendor, 
And  glances  soft  and  tender. 


Whose  lips  make  me  surrender 

The  kisses  that  I  keep 

For  everything  that's  sweet. 

It  is  a  little  dusty, 

But  it  is  never  musty, 

Nor  sullen-faced  nor  crusty, 

As   sometimes  wayward  little  children   are. 

I  think  the  blue  skies  love  them, 

They  bend  so  bright  above  them. 

I  almost  think  they  covet 

The  pansies  for  their  starry  deep. 

And  the  moonbeams  love  to  creep 

To  their  purple  hearts  and  sleep. 

And  I'm  sure  the  wood-nymphs, 

When  one  comes  their  way,  think 

Nothing  would  so  delight  it 

As  a  pansy-leaf  for  a  royal  mantle. 

Pansies   are   Nature's   children, 

Her  darling  little  babies, 

Her  winsome  little  ladies, 

Her  precious  little  laddies. 

And  I'm  sure  their  smiles  delight  her, 

And  with  tricks  they  never  fright  her, 

Nor  with  rough  blows  ever  smite  her; 

But  they  live  to  brighten 

Her  fond  heart,  and  lighten 

All  her  cares  with  beauty; 

And  to  bloom  is  a  duty 

Which  the  child-faced  pansies  love. 


Golden  Poppies. 

Ah,  golden  poppies  on  the  hillsides  growing, 
Where  the  breeze's  breath  like  a  tide  is  flowing 
In  ripples  o'er  the  grasses, 
Which   curtsey   as   it   passes — 
You  lift  your  heads  a-smiling, 
The  Sun's  full  light  beguiling, 
To   shine  out   from  your   faces 
And  light  the  hillside  places 
With  a  glory  like  a  crown. 

Ah,  golden  poppies  swaying 
As  if  your  bells  were  playing 
Some  sweet,  melodious  chime 
To  fairies'  song  and  rhyme. 
Like  a  sunset  cloud  you're  lying 
'Neath  where  Summer  birds  are  flying — 
Hold  your  hearts  their  happy  song, 
Does  it  glad  you  when  are  long 
All   the   golden   Summer   days? 

All  your  golden  bells  ring  lightly, 
While  the  spider  spinneth  brightly 
Rope  of  silver  as  he  passes 
Cheerfully  amid  the  grasses. 


22 


The  Second  liirtli  of  the  Floicers. 


Soon  or  late  some  smiling  fairy 
To  your  bells  this  rope  will  carry. 
Then  your  bright  bells'  silver  chimes, 
Mingled  with  the  passing  winds, 
Shall  be  rung  by  fairy  hands. 

Then  the  world  will  pause  and  listen, 
While  the   fields  with   dewdrops  glisten; 
Swing,  ring,  and  the  world  will  say, 
Oh,  the  notes  that  we  hear  to-day ! 
What  is  it,  Sweet,   this  music  low 
That  breathes  through  the  winds  and  sunlight  so? 
But   only  between   us,  you   and    I, 
Shall  the  beautiful,  gladsome  secret  lie, 
And  be  sure  we  never  will  tell. 


THE  SECOND  BIRTH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

I've  heard  it  said  that  when   from  Eden's  bowers 
Kve  turned   forever,  all  the  blessed  flowers 
Drooped  low  their  heads,  each  hung  upon  its  stem, 
All  colorless  and  dead,  and  the   Earth  then 
With  sorrow  and  with  pain  grew  pale  and  gray, 
And  all  of  beauty  slipped  from  it  away. 

The  clouds   were   thick   within   the   Summer  sky; 
The  bird  and  bee  and  bright-winged  butterfly 
Sailed   nevermore   within   the   silent   air. 
And  not  a  brook  made  music  anywhere. 
Xo  violet  blue  with  tender,  drooping  lid, 
Was  anywhere  within  the  grasses  hid; 
Xo  daisy,  golden-eyed,  with  smiling  face, 
Turned  as  the  breezes  sought  it  in  its  place 
In  the  wide  meadows,  and  no  roses  sweet 
Brightened   the  wayside,  and   no  clover  bloom 
Could  the  bees  find  within  the  hungry  noon. 

O  sad  and  heavy-eyed,  our  Mother  Eve 
Fainted  along  the  wayside,  and  did  grieve 
For  her  lost  flowers— those  smiles  of  God  so  fair, 
Making  an   Eden    for   her  everywhere. 
Then  hand  in  hand  did  Eve  and  Adam  go, 
Too  sad   for  tears,  so  heavy  was  their  woe, 
Before  them  all  the  wide  world  lonely  lay; 
They  cared  not  whither  they  did  take  their  way. 

So  passed  the  years,  and  all  the  Earth  was  bare, 
Without  a  blossom  to  make  sweet  the  air, 
To  brighten  with  its  beauty  the  green  sod, 
And  whisper  to  them  the  love  of  God. 

But  by  and  by  a  little  baby  fair— 
With  soft  blue  eyes    and  shining,  golden  hair, 
With  cheeks  like  lilies,  and  with  lips  as  sweet 
As  Eden's  roses  which  Eve's  eyes  did  greet 
On  that  first  morning  when  she  woke  within 

The  blessed  garden  free  from  stain  of  sin- 
Was  born  in  a  white  tent  upon  the  great  wide  plain, 
And  then   it  seemed  as  if  at  once  again 
The  world  grew  glad,  and  that  to  match  its  eyes 
Sprung  the  sweet  violets,  looking  to  the  skies, 


With  their  clear  gaze  so  dewy  soft  and  dear; 
And  then  the  budding  roses  did  appear— 
Red  as  the  baby's  lips— and  lilies  sprung 
Round  the  tent's  borders,  and  on  green  vines  hung 
The  morning-glory's  bells,  which  light  winds  stirred 
Till  Eve's  glad  ear  the  sweetest  music  heard. 

And  once  more  Earth   grew   fair  and  bright  again, 
The  fields  were  glad  as  with  the  baby's  smile, 
For  thousand  blossoms  sprang  to  life  the  while; 
Brooks  leaped  in  laughter,  and  e'en  Eve  forgot 
The  sadness  and  sorrow  of  her  lot; 
And  as  the  baby  grew,  where'er  it  trod, 
Each  footprint  woke  a  blossom  from  the  sod. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  PANSIES.     (1892.) 

Did  you  see  the  little  fairies, 

That  arc  hiding  in  the  grass, 
Who  lift  up  smiling   faces 

Unto  us  as  we  pass? 
Some  purple-eyed  and  lovely, 

And  some  with  amber  hair, 
And  round  their  pretty  shoulders 

Such  dainty  things  they  wear. 
The  wind  it  stops  to  kiss  them, 

The  sunshine  seeks  to  hide 
Right  in  their  hearts  so  golden, 

As  if  wishing  naught  beside. 

Oh,  such  dainty  little  faces! 

Such  dimpled  little  things, 
Growing  in  quiet  places — 

Don't  you  think  that  they  have  wings? 
Oh,  look!  just  look  and  see  them, 

I  think  they  want  to  say. 
You  darling  little  child  you, 

I  wish  that  you  would  stay. 

Oh,  you  darling  little  posies! 

You're  lovelier  than  the  roses, 
Than  the  lilies'  whitest  snow; 

Please  tell  me  what  your  name  is, 
For  I'd  really  like  to  know— 

And  tell  me  if  you  love  me, 
Because  I  love  you  so. 

Then  all  the  little  pansies 

Lifted   their  pretty  eyes, 
And  curtsied  as  the  wind  blew 

And  made  their  sweet  replies: 

We  arc  only  quiet  blossoms, 

But  yet  we  love  to  grow, 
To  make  the  earth  more  beautiful, 

As  does  the  lilies'  snow; 
As  does  the  roses'  color, 

And  the  violets'  lovely  blue. 
And  all  the  thousand  fragrant  flowers 


23 


Trees,  Grasses  and  Flowers. 


,  Of  many-colored  hue. 
And  long  ago  we  think  that 

Some  angel  in  disguise 
Did  drop  a  smile  upon  us, 

While  bending  from  the  skies; 
And  that  smile  lit  up  our  faces 

Till  they  grew,  like  children's,  fair, 
And  lie  called  us  little  pansies, 

And  that  is  what  we  are. 


LILIES.     (1901.) 

A  fragrant  lily  in  my  garden  grew, 

White-lipped  and  fair;  the  bees'  hum  softly  fell 
Around   it  there;   at   dawn  the  silver  dew 

Lay  in   its   heart  as  in  a  crystal  well. 

The  roses  grew  and  nodded  by  its  side, 
The  pansies  upward  looked  about  its  feet, 

And  all  the  spaces  of  the  garden  wide 
Drank  in  its  flowing  tide  of  fragrance  sweet. 

The  world  was  brighter  for  its  presence  there, 
Although  it  was  a  little  thing  within 

The  great  walled  spaces  where  all  things  were  fair, 
And  Beauty  from  each  growing  thing  did  spring. 

How  like  the  lily  in  this  world  of  ours, 

The  Christian's  life  when  it  is  pure  and  true, 

How  sweet  the  fragrance  which  it  daily  showers, 
How  rare  the  graces  which  it  brings  to  view. 

The  fragrance  of  self-sacrifice  it  yields, 
The  whiteness  of  its  purity  we  see, 

And  like  the  lilies  of  the  Summer  fields 
It  sheds  a  sweetness  that  is  full  and  free. 

God  walks  with  us  if  we  but  walk  the  way 

That  Jesus  trod.  His  presence  makes  it  sweet. 

Take  Thou  our  hand,  O  Father !  be  our  stay, 
Lilies  of  Faith  make  blossoms  round  our  feet. 


WATER  LILIES. 


O  lilies  fair!  upon  the  water's  breast, 

Say,  are  you  dreaming  'neath  this  sunny  sky 
Of  the  sweet  song-birds  that  above  you  fly, 

Ever  joy-winged  upon  their  happy  quest? 

How  soft  the  shadows  fall  around  you  there, 
While  silver  ripples  hold  you  in  their  arms  — 
Just  kissed  t<t  stirring  'neath  the  spreading  palms 

Your  faces  holy  as  a  nun's  at  prayer. 

The  happy  flies,  a  silver  cloud  above 

The  still  blue  softness  of  the  clear  pool's  breath, 
Make  'twixt  you  and  the  azure  of  the  West 

Its  rainbow  shining  soft  as  smile  of  love. 


The  small  gray  sparrows  drink  your  breath  of  balm, 
As  if  it  held  the  spirit  of  their  song, 
Nursed  by  the  spring  and  gently  borne  along, 

Filling  the  world  with  music's  sacred  calm. 

The  swelling  buds  are  silent-lipped  as  they 

Throw  off  their  hoods  and  sunward  lift  their  eyes, 
Filled  with  the  wonder  of  Birth's  fresh  surprise, 

And  look  so  gladly  in  the  face  of  Day. 

The  noon-bright  air  seems  lost  in  reverie, 
And  Earth  seems  dreaming  of  diviner  things; 
Now  quietly  the  water  'round  you  clings, 

Not  e'en  one  ripple  stirreth  silently. 

Then  Night  comes  with  her  million  starry  eyes, 
And  curtains  you  with  shadows  and  with  dreams, 
Brightened  to  loveliness  by  starry  gleams 

From  far-off  worlds,  those  dwellers  in  the  skies. 


BLUEBELLS.     (1884.) 

Bluebells,  bluebells,  bluebells,  blow! 
Ring  your  bells  and  ring  them  low; 
From  your  hearts  let  music  leap — 
From  your  chambers  where  asleep 
All  the  dainty  fairies  hide, 
And  their  thoughts  to  music  glide; 
Where  the  winds  with  fragrance  sweet 
Make  a  cover  for  their  feet; 
Where  glad  bird-song  on  the  ear 
Falls  in  notes  most  sweet  and  clear. 


Bluebells,  bluebells,  bluebells,  ring ! 
While  your  perfumed  tongues  you  swing, 
Pour  your  music  low  and  sweet 
Round  about  our  passing  feet. 
Ring!  and  let  the  Summer  lean 
With  her  dainty  ear  between 
Bud  and  blossom  as  they  sway, 
When  the  light  winds  pass  their  way- 
Lean  and  listen  while  shall  ring 
Voice  of  praise  from  everything. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  CHRYSANTHEMUMS.     (1891.) 

In  the  far  Orient,  where  the  rosy  Day 
Opens  glad  eyes  and  sees  along  his  way 
The  cradled  dawns  asleep,  waiting  the  calls 
Of  fair  Tomorrows,  and  his  full  light  falls 
Like  sifted  gold  through  tamarind  and  palm, 
Or  gleams  in  languorous  quiet  in  the  calm 
Of  the  full  noons  where  lotus  blossoms  lie 
In  roseate  brightness  on  the  water's  sky, 
Departing  Summer  passed  as  Autumn  neared — 
A  dusky  queen — with  all  her  forests  speared 


24 


The  liirth  of  the  Nose. 


With  brightest  splendor;  gold  and  crimson  shone— 
All  colors  of  the  dawn  within  her  zone 
Of  swaying  leaves,  as  if  the  Sun  had  there 
Melted  the  live  fire-opal,  till  the  air, 
Pillared  with  mighty  forest  trunks,  did  stand— 
With  mountained  altars  lift  on  either  hand- 
Autumn's  fit  temple.    But  where  beside  her  shrine 
Were  Nature's  priestesses— the  Mogra   fair,  and  vine? 
Where  all  sweet  Summer's  sisterhood  that  made 
The  world  divine  with  beauty,  and  that  laid 

Mosaics  of  rich  bloom  'neath  swaying  trees, 
Feeding  with  perfume  every  passing  breeze 
From  cups  of  lilies,  mango,  violet, 
Jasmine  and  heliotrope,  and  the  dew-wet 
Kroona-flowers?     And  where  the  purple  lines 
Of  morning-glory  bells,  swinging  from  vines 
Wind-swept  with  melody;  and  where  the  stars, 
'Mid  bamboos  shining;  where  the  glowing  bars 
Of  red  warm  bloom  lying  against  the  Dawn, 
Filled  full  of  fragrance  as  the  breath  of  Morn? 

As  day  had  faded  in  the  crimson  West, 
Summer  had  wholly  past,  her  glowing  vest 
Pinned  with  a  star,  and  backward  she  had  cast 
Incense  of  gathered  bloom— she  held  them  fast 
Within  her  arms— roses  and  lilies  white, 
Verbena,  iris,  violet,  and  the  bright 
Full-blooded  pinks,  and  flowers  like  twilight  dim, 
So  purple-tinted,  but  which  seem  to  swim 
In   fragrance,  and  gay-hued  lotus  flowers— 
The  dreaming  souls  of  Summer's  fairest  hours. 

Ihen  Autumn  leaned  and  touched  the  Earth  anew, 
With  voice  as  sweet  as  Israfel's  she  drew 
Close  to  her  breast,  and  with  her  glowing  lips 
Kissed  her  brown  cheeks  and  dusky  finger-tips; 
Filled  with  new  charms  her  many  faded  bowers ; 
Set  new  fair  moons  upon  her  sunset  towers; 
Touched  her  pale  dawns  with  gold  and  shining  red; 
Poured  flaming  beauty  through  her  woods,  and  said- 
Speaking  through  lingering  south  winds  breathing  low- 
"  Sad  Earth,  I'll  bless  thee  ere  from  thee  I  go." 

Softly  the  Orient  Night  dropped  o'er  the  plain, 

The  clear,  bright  stars  filling  the  sky's  blue  main ; 

The  white  Moon  shining  like  a  silver  bow; 

The  dreaming  waters  tinkling  soft  below; 

The  dusk -winged  birds  upon  their  many  nests; 

The  long,  slant  moonbeams  falling  on  Earth's  breast 
In  plumes  of  light,  radiant,  soft  and  clear, 

They  silvered  all  Night's  balmy  atmosphere. 
But  as  they  touched  the  Earth  they  cloven  fell, 
And  in  each  half  a  bud  began  to  swell,     . 
But  when  the  miracle  of  Dawn  was  done 
Earth  oped  her  eyes  to  greet  the  coming  Sun; 
All  shadows  fled,  the  rosy  sunbeams  flew 
To  kiss  her  eyelids,  while  the  shining  dew 
Decked  her  with  diamonds  of  purest  light, 


When,  lo !  her  breath  as  sweet  as  lilies  white, 
Lingering  she  drew,  as  when  with  swift  surprise 
Of  large,  pleased  vision  she  had  turned  her  eyes 
Where  were  the  blossoms  from  the  moonbeams  Mining, 
Glorious  as  sunrise  on  their  tall  stalks  hung. 

What  coils  of  splendid  color,  crimson-hued, 
Dappled  with  gold  and  purple  tints  she  viewed; 
And  some  like  wine  when  through  it  light  is  shed; 
Some  hundred-petaled  like  the  tousled  head 
Of  a  great  sun-dog,  and  some  brightly  white 
As  snow  wreaths  in  the  Sun;  some  held  the  light 
Of  "pink  and  purple  censers,"  such  as  swing 
In  summer  gardens  full  with  blossoming. 
"I  am  content,"  Earth  cried,  "let   Autumn  conic. 
No  flower  outshines  her,  proud  Chrysanthemum." 

THE  BIRTH  OF  THE  ROSE.     (1899-) 

An  angel  leaned  from  heaven  and  earthward  turned 

His  starry  eyes.     The  skies  did  brighter  shine 

As  his  full  glance  fell  on  them,  and  they  spurned 

The  lingering  shadows;  a  glowing  line 

Of  silver  moonbeams  touched  the  face  of  Day, 

Soft  as  a  mother's  kiss  they  falling  lay, 

And  the  Earth  woke  and  lifted  up  her  eyes 

To  her  blue  tent  of  overarching  skies, 

Her  inmost  being  thrilled  as  she  stirred. 

With  ear  attent  her  listening  spirit  heard 

The  angel  whisper,  "Smile,  O  Earth,  once  more! 

Let  not  your  heart  be  any  longer  sore 

Over  the  blight  that  sin  hath  cast  on  you." 

He,  pausing,  smiled,  and  then  the  silver  dew 

Fell  on  Earth's  face  with  its  baptismal  flow 

Of  silent  blessing,  and  then,  looking,  lo! 

Earth's  eyes  grew  bright  again  with  glad  surprise, 

As  round  about  her  she  did  see  uprise, 

Like  little  children  clad  in  fragrance  rare. 

The  sweet  rose  stalks  all  blossoming  and  fair. 

The  pulsing  air  grew  gladder  witli  their  breath, 

And  from  the  Earth  seemed  lift  the  curse  of  death, 

When  glowed  Day's  herald  star  full  bright  and  clear 

In  the  cool  deeps  of  Morning's  atmosphere, 

And  purple  Dawn  waxed  golden  in  its  glow. 

And  glad  streams  tinkled  in  their  seaward  flow, 

Past  bamboo  tufts  and  pulsing  lotus  leaf. 

And  the  rich  yellow  of  the  harvest  sheaf, 

And  the  fair  East  kept  brightening  to  the  blue 

Of  the  high  zenith;  the  faint  dusk  grew 

To  glowing  crimson,  scarlet  amethyst. 

Till  Morn's  star  sank  in  floods  of  golden  mist. 

All  shadows  fled,  the  gold-winged  sunbeams  flew 

To  kiss  Earth's  eyelids,  and  the  shining  dew 

Decked  her  with  diamonds  of  the  purest  light, 

While  her  full  breath  was  sweet  as  lilies  white, 

And  lo !  the  rose  with  angel  beauty  born 

Smiled  its  charms  into  the  face  of  Morn, 

The  sad  Earth  lift  her  sorrow-laden  eyes, 

And  dreamed  once  more  of  Hope  and  Paradise. 


25 


Trees,  Grasses  and  Flowers, 


Roses.     (1884.) 

They  whisper  to  the  air  which  around  them 
Lingers,  drinking  in  quiet   ecstacy 
Their  perfumed  breath  like  some  lover  fond,  and 
At  its  touch  the  dewy  petals  softly 
Stir  and  tremble  in  their  fragrant  gladness. 
The   dew   sends   soft -lipped   kisses  down;  the 
Sunshine  pours  its  wealth  of  tenderness,  and 
Writes  its  perfumed  poem  in  pale  orange 
Tints,  which,  mingling,  lose  themselves  amid  the 
Shades  of  pink    and  rich,  deep  red  and  crimson, 
And  all  the  roadside  lies,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
A  symphony  in  color,  a  rhythm  of 
Sweet  odors,  a  wayside  psalm  of  beauty. 

Golden  Abutilon.     (1886.) 

Swing,  swing,  O  airy  golden  bells ! 

To  the  whispered  music  of  every  breeze  that  swells. 

All  the  leaves  are  leaning  from  the  trees  to  listen, 

And  on  the  rose  and  lily,  growing  underneath  your  boughs, 

Like  pure-faced  nuns,  who've  breathed  their  holy  vows, 

I  see  the  shining  dews  of  gladness  glisten; 

And  the  birds  within  the  tree-tops  fold  their  wings  to  hear 

Your  airv,  fairv  music  in  its  cadence  low  and  clear. 


THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  FLOWERS.     (1878.) 

A  shining  globe,  a  silver  sphere 

Lay  sparkling  and  bright  in  the  morning  clear; 

It  had  drifted  down  through  the  starry  air 

And  made  its  bed  in  the  Lily  fair; 

And  when  the  dawn  of  the  daylight  broke 

A  thousand  rainbows  in  it  awoke; 

lliey  stretched  themselves  to  its  unseen  poles 

And  glimmered  above  its  tiny  shoals; 

And  there  from  every  shade  and  hue 

Out  peeped  the  face  of  an  elfin  crew. 

Their  heads  were  crowned  with  shining  hair, 

Formed  of  the  gold  from  the  sunbeams  fair; 

Their  eyes  were  sparkles  of  starry  light, 

Dropped  from  the  star-born  meteor's  flight; 

Their  gossamer  wings  of  azure  hue 

Were  woven  from  the  lightest  winds  that  blew, 

And  filled  with  woof  from  the  sunset's  deep 

On  whose  golden  sea  they  were  wont  to  sleep. 

Their  breath  was  sweet  as  the  Lily's  own, 

And  sweeter  than  music's  sweetest  tone 

Their  gurgling  laughter  rose  and  fell 

To  the  soft  time-beat  of  the  Asphodel. 

But  the  Sun  be.at  warm  on  the  Lily  pale, 
And  the  dew-drop  spread  its  misty  sail; 
It  floated  up  on  a  sunbeam's  crest 
Into  the  blue  of  the  ether's  breast ; 
It  rose  aloft  like  a  swift  balloon, 
Past  the  shrinking  form  of  the  pale  white  Moon- 
Upward  and  upward,  higher  and  higher 
Towards  the  Sun's  great  burning  heart  of  fire. 


But  out  from  the  dew-drop's  shattered  sphere 

Stole  the  fairy  Elves,  and  downward,  sheer 

Through  the  golden,  shining  air  they  sped, 

Into  the  heart  of  the  Lily's  bed; 

Into  the  deep  of  the  Roses  curled, 

Wherever  its  petals  were  unfurled; 

Into  the  blossoming  Heliotrope 

And  the  bosom  of  every  Pink  that  oped. 

They  swung  on  the  edge  of  the  Mignonette, 

And  danced  where  the  sweet  Geranium  set, 

They  sipped  the  dew  from  the  Gillyflower, 

And  in  Orange  buds  they  built  a  bower; 

Into  the  Night-blooming  Cereus  stole; 

And  touched  its  stamens  with  glints  of  gold; 

They  nestled  down  in  the  Daffodil, 

And  kissed  the  Iris,  rainbow  frill; 

In  Sweet  Alyssum  they  sat  and  dreamed, 

From  the  heat  by  a  cobweb  curtain  screened; 

From   the   Apple   Blossom's  milk-white  sheen; 

They  plucked  a  robe  for  their  virgin  queen; 

And  a  leaf  they  stole  from  the  sweet  Peach  flower 

.And  hung  as  a  curtain  for  her  bower; 

And  deep  in  the  Honeysuckle's  bloom 

They  found  a  gorgeous  palace  room. 

And  they  waved  their  wands,  and  with  honeyed  sweet 

A\  as  the  full  deep  cup  of  the  flower  replete. 

They  stole  to  the  Violet's  drooping  head 

And  with  perfumed  nectar  the  floweret  fed; 

And  they  carved  the  Lilac's  fragrant  bell 

Into  a  breeze-rocked  citadel. 

And  one  tiny  Elf  with  fairy  bride 
Stole  softly  down  to  the  water's  side, 
To  a  crystal  lake  in  the  sunshine  bright, 
Starred  here  and  there  by  the  lilies  white; 
And  they  stole  to  the  heart  of  the  Lily's  gold, 
And  its  fragrance  wrapped  them  fold  on  fold; 
And  he  plucked  from  its  stem  the  Lily  sweet, 
And  they  pushed  far  out  on  the  waters  deep; 
Then  the  Hornet  flew  as  their  pilot  down, 
And  the  Butterfly  perched  on  the  Lily's  crown, 
And  he  spread  his  wing  for  a  snowy  sail, 
And  they  sailed  far  out  where  the  shadows  lay, 
And  the  sunshine  fell  in  a  column  pale, 
There  in  the  cool  of  the  forest's  May. 

An  hour  they  strayed  in  the  forest  deeps, 

And  it  took  new  scents  and  perfumed  sweets; 

It  shone  in  new  and  charming  dyes, 

And  Nature  waked  to  a  glad  surprise, 

For  wherever  the  fairies'  sweet  breath  fell 

Waked  flowers  as  bright  as  the  Asphodel. 

And  the  azure  flush  of  the  Violet  made 

Their  scented  path  through  the  wooded  glade; 

And  the  Mountain  Laurel  lifted  high 

Its  pink-white  blossoms  to  the  sky, 

And  the  tinted  leaves  of  the  Eglantine 

Gleamed  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  green, 

And  drowned  in  its  perfume  the  sunshine  lay, 

And  the  winds  were  drunk  with  its  sweets  that  dav. 


2.. 


The  Spirits  of  the  Flowers. 


Then  back  o'er  the  waters  the  fairies  sped, 
Leaving  a  world  of  bloom  behind, 
Still  by  the  dusky  Hornet  led, 
And  the  Butterfly's  sail  spread  out  to  the  wind, 
They  reached  the  shore — 'neath  their  tiny  feet 
Up  sprung  the  honeyed  Clover  sweet; 
And  the  Bluebells  gave  a  musical  peal 
At  the  springing  touch  of  each  fairy  heel, 
And  the  Cowslip  stirred  in  its  shrinking  grace, 
And  the  gold-eyed  Daisy  raised  his  face, 
And  with  crimson  petals  and  golden  heart 
The  Tulip  stood  by  itself  apart. 
But  the  purple  Night  dropped  down  its  shade. 
And  the  glowing  light  in  the  West  did  fade; 
Then  the  Firefly  came  with  his  shining  spark — 
A  beacon-light  through  the  growing  dark — 
And  they  climbed  his  back,  a  willing  steed, 
And  back  to  their  fairy  camp  did  speed. 


And  the  winds  were  soft,  and  the  dew  fell  bright, 

Like  a  rain  of  silver  through  the  Night, 

And  the  Klves  they  danced  on  the  grassy  green, 

And  each  had  a  cup  his  wings  between. 

It  was  fastened  there  by  a  gossamer  thread, 

Which  they  had  plucked  from  the  Spider's  bed; 

And  there  were  the  dews  of  Night  distilled, 

Till  every  cup  was  with  nectar  filled. 

Then  each  unclasped  the  silver  thread 

And  with  cup  in  hand  to  the  flowers  thev  sped, 

And  they  bathed  each  flower  with  nectar  there, 

Then  waved  their  wands  in  the  star-lit  air. 

Each  bathed  in  a  drop  of  pearly  dew, 
Then  three  times  swung  his  wand  anew, 
Then  faded  out  each  form  and  face, 
And  only  perfume  filled  the  place. 
Their  work  was  done,  and  each  had  passed, 
A  perfumed  soul,  to  his  flower  at  last. 


27 


i5Sion 


'Romance  beside  you  dreams." 


SAN  FERNANDO. 

[On   the  centennial  celebration   (Sept.   9,   1897.)   of  the  founding 
of   San    Fernando    Mission.] 

I  see  a  vision  of  the  Past  that's  vanished, 

And    voices    hear    that    long,    long    since    were    still; 
And   dusky    faces   that   old   Time  has   banished 

Once  more  these  hoary  piles  do  throng  and  fill. 


The  footsteps  of  the  lurking  savage  greet  me, 
I  hear  the  tread  of  many  sandaled  feet, 

The  snowy  sails  of  drifting  galleon  meet  me, 
As  turn  mine  eyes  unto  our  sunset  deep. 


This   tent   of  skies  ahove  me  bends  in  glory, 
The  old  Past  halts  to  close  its  pond'rous  gates, 

And  o'er  its  page  of  yet  unwritten  story 

The  smiling  Future  holds  her  pen  and  waits. 

Waits  till  the  silent  air  wakes  to  listen 

To  glad  Te  Deums  from  the  treetops  flung, 

Where  in   the  morning  sunshine   gleam   and   glisten 
The  Mission  bells  amid  the  oak  boughs  swung. 

There  swing  they  till  the  Mission  walls  uplifted, 
Beneath  tiled  roof  in  stately  beauty  stand; 

Bells  of  the  Past !  whose  music  slowly  drifted 
Above  the  altars   of  this  heathen   land. 

'Twas  then  the  clanging  doors  of  Superstition 
Swung  to,  and  waiting   Progress  seized  the  key 

And   dawned   the  morning  of  Hope's   glad    fruition, 
Whose  fullness  lay  in  the  bright  Yet-to-be. 

'Twas  then  that  History  here  began  her  story, 
The  old  Past  died,  the  Future's  day  began; 

These  sacred  walls,  today  so  old  and  hoary, 
Spoke  first  of  hope  and  heav'nly  life   for  man. 

The   untaught   savage  heard   and   gladly   listened, 

His  altar  fires  went  out  upon  the  hills; 
Triumphantly   his   new-taught    Glorias   answered 

The  ringing  music  of  his  running  rills. 

O  Mission  walls !  how  sacred  is  your  story ! 

O  blessed  milestones  on  the  weary  way 
From  the  dark  night  of  savage  Superstition 

To  the  full  light  that  crowns  our  land  today. 

Decay  has  seized  you,  yet  ye  shall  not  perish— 
This  pledge  we  give  with  firm,  uplifted  hand; 

Your  walls,  so  pregnant  with  grand  deeds,  we'll  cherish, 
The   unknown    Future    still   shall   see   them   stand. 


The  Past,  enfolding  with  its  deeds  of  valor 
A   Mecca   for  the  pilgrims'  weary   feet, 

A  shrine  the  story  of  the  Cross  shall  hallow 

Where  \ve  with  reverent  voice  the  Past  may  greet. 


THE  OLD  MISSIONS.     (1892.) 

Look  to  the  Sun,  O  gray  old  walls  of  stone! 

And  to  the  hills»\iour  elder  brothers  they, 

Who  stood  and  watched  when  on  that  ancient  day 

A  century  agone  those  dusky  hands 

First  laid  your  corner-stones.     With  them  kindred 

Are  you.     The  Past  has  wedded  you,  and  round 

You    still    flows    its    soft    atmosphere.     Romance 

Beside  you  dreams,  her  soft  breath  like  the  rose 

Which  the  wind  touches  and  it  yields  its  sweets; 

Could  we  but  waken  her  to  speech,  our  ears 

Would  hold  its  melody  as  they  do  hold 

For  aye  the  soft  melody  of  rippling  streams. 

Of  tinkling  music  of  the  fountain's  flow, 

Or   sounds   of   soft    winds    breathing   through    forest 

Pines,  or  sweetness  of  fond  childhood's  laughter 

That  we  loved. 

Looking  on  your  gray  old  walls, 
Heavy  with  rime  of  years  and  grim  decay, 
Fancy  those  native  sons  with  their  bronzed  faces 
Paints;  those  sons  who,  nursed  by  the  warm  sunshine, 
Kissed  by  the  gentle  winds  and  fed  by  the 
Growing   corn,    grew    Samson-like    in    sinewy 
Strength,  fleet  in  the  chase,  and  skillful  with  the 
Oar.     Swift  as  a  shooting  star  glided  their 
Light  canoes,  skimming  the  waves  like  sea-gulls 
In  their  flight.     With  what  unerring  skill  tracked 
They  the  hare,  and  followed  the  coyote, 
Fierce-mouthed  and  snarling,  to  his  lonely  haunt, 
The  fierce  and  hungry  mountain  lion  to 
His  lair.     Simple  their  needs,  and  simple  was 
Their  faith — Sun-Worshipers,  who,  when  morning 
Broke,  and  the   great    round   Sun   uprose,  flashing 
His  splendor  on  the  heights — their  mountain  altars — 
Worship  fully  went    forth,  in   reverence 
Bending,  rejoicing  in  his  light,  whose  smile 
Was  sunshine,  and  whose  breath  was  summer  warmth. 
Green  slept  the  winter  hills  in  those  old  days; 
The  soft  air  round  them  flooded  with  silence; 
The  deep  blue  skies,  like  an  infinite  sea, 
Golden  with  sunshine,  while  with  pathless  flight 
The  birds  winged  the  bright  air,  or  poured  their  songs 
From  tree  and  swaying  bush  in  symphonies 
That  stirred  the  world  to  gladness, 
As  if  music  were  its  soul  and  its  heart 
Were  love  pulsing  with  melody.     Nut-brown 
Those  early  children  of  the  soil,  the  Sun 
Their  father,  and  they  reared  to  him  altars 
Where  burned  undying  fires.     The  soft  East  Wind, 


MISSION    SAN    JUAN    CAPISTRANO. 


Santa  Barbara   Mission. 


Blowing  at  dawn,  was  hut  the  messenger 
Whispering  of  his  coming,  and  when  the  East 
Burst  into  red  bloom,  or  burned  with  amber, 
Or  glowed  with  pure  white  light  on  their  faces — 
Touched  by  his  beams — they  fell,  the  transplendent 
Glory  of  the  skies   lighting  his  garments' 
Hem,  and  the  breath  of  flowers  the  incense 
Which  Earth  offered  when  first  his  golden  eye 
Opened  above  the  mountain's  crest,  making 
A  new  day  for  the  waiting  world. 

As  now, 

Then  glowed  the  golden  poppies  on  the  hills, 
And  these  they  deemed  a  smile  their  god  had  dropped 
In  passing,  and  so  they  with  unspoken 
Reverence  loved  them,  and  the  diamonds 
Of  dew  and  pearls  of  white  wild-flowers  lying 
'Mid  the  lush  grasses.     O  Nature's  temple! 
Wide  and  grand  it  rose,  roofed  by  the  bending 
Sky,  the  columned  trees  its  towering  spires, 
The  Sun  its  god,  the  myriad  untold 
Stars  its  taper  lights,  the  million  birds 
Its  singing  choirs,  and  its  grand  organ  peal 
The  thundering  Cataract,  with  undertone 
Of  leaping  rills,  whose  silver  cadences 
Were  sweet  as  wind-blown  harps  at  eventide, 
And  tender  as  a  mother's  lullaby. 

But  to  these  shores  there  came  the  long-robed  priests, 
With  sandaled  feet  and  hands  bearing  the  Cross. 
The  blue  waves  danced  beneath  their  vessel's  prow, 
Till  the  green  shores  seemed  beckoning  to  their  feet, 
And  breezes  soft  a   whispering  welcome  breathed. 
Here  they  the  banner  of  their  faith  unfurled, 
Planted  the  Cross  upon  these  sunset  shores, 
And  swung  their  Mission  bells  among  the  trees, 
And  told  the  natives  of  the  faith  they  brought, 
And  stirred  their  wonder  by^Jliei£_42pjii£mis__riles, 
And  nursed  Hope's  blossom  in  their  simple  hearts. 
How  sweet  to  them  the  story  of  the  Cross ! 
How  grand  the  Glorias  the  Mission  bells 
Rang  to  the  waiting  hills,  oft  wakening 
The  birds  at  morn !     The  rippling  water's  song 
Mingled  with  glad  Te  Deums.     Silver-tongued, 
The  Spanish  padres  chanted  low  and  soft 
And  clear  their  vesper  hymns,  and  their  incense 
Burned  on  rude-built  altars  'neath  the  templed 
Dome  of  bending  sky.     But  soon  the  native 
Heart,   kindled  to  new   faith,   lent   willing  hand 
To  rear  the  Mission  walls.     The  sun-dried  bricks 
Were  brought.     The  patient  cattle  on  the  hills 
Were  slain,  yielding  their  hides  the  hundred  roofs 
To  bind.     Patient  the  feet  the  high  mountain 
Walls  that  climbed  to  fell  the  mighty  trees. 
Patient  the  backs  that  bore  through  pathless  ways 
The  monarch  forest  trunks  down  the  steep  slopes, 
And  strong  the  sinewy  arms  which  giant 
Boulders  stirred  to  serve  for  rock   foundations. 
Silence  crept  slowly  from  the  hills  she  loved 
As  the  new  life  dawned,  and  the  square  turrets 
And  the  red-tiled   roofs  rose  above  the  sleeping 
Plains,  and  backward  slippeth  to  dim   forget  fulness 


The  old  idyllic  life.     With  these  gray  walls 
Sprang  a   new-born  hope.     No  more  the  Sun, 
Marching   through   cloudless   sky-paths   swept   by   rays 
Of  light,  saw  here   her  worshipers.     Here   grew 
Dim  all  his  altar  fires,  paling  as  starlight 
In  the  sunlight  pales,  before  the  grander 
Glory  of  the  Cross.     A  new  day  had  come, 
Anu  Empire's  star  shone  clear  within  its  dawn. 

SANTA  BARBARA  MISSION.     (1902.) 
Its  old  walls  stand  beneath  the  summer  sky, 
The  winds  have  kissed  them   for  a  hundred  years, 
The  ancient  olive  trees,  yet  green  and  fair 
As  tireless  sentinels,  are  standing  there, 
The  dark-eyed  senorita  still  appears 
With  smiling  face  among  the  passers-by. 

There  walk  the  monks  as  they  did  walk  of  old 
When  here  another  race  did  hold  its  sway. 
The  pictures  on  the  walls  are  dim  with  age, 
For  time  hath  turned  since  then  another  page — 
Seen    the    Past    vanish    and    a    new    Today 
Of  glorious  promise  round  these  walls  unfold. 

Still  hang  the  bells  beneath  the  tiled  roof-towers 

That  woke  the  Indian   from  his  slumbers  deep. 

And  the  old  fountain  sparkles  in  the  sun; 

Like  liquid  silver  do  its  waters  run, 

While  the   grand  mountains   watch  above  it   keep. 

And  the  old  Earth  spreads  out  its  wealth  of  flowers. 

Within  the  churchyard  there  the  sleepers  lie 
WJio  died  before  the  coming  of  Today; 
The  crumbling  stones  alx>ve  their  bodies  rest, 
The  flowering  sod  above  their  forms  is  prest, 
Outside  the  walls  the  happy  children  stray, 
And  birds  soar  upward  to  the  cloudless  sky. 

This  ancient  pile  is  voiceful  of  the  Past, 
Our  fancy  sees  the  Indian  bending  there 
Before  its  altars,  th'  dark-browed  sons  of  Spain 
Kneeling  round  him;  then  there  comes  again 
To  breathe  to  God  her  silent  fervent  prayer 
The  aged   senora,   clinging  ever   fast 

To  what  the  priest  hath  taught  her,  waiting  there 
To  have  him  bless  her — then  she  goes  her  way 
With  heart  joy-filled;  the  days  they  are  not  long, 
The  morning  seemeth  like  a  happy  song; 
Life  is  so  glad,  so  free  from  care  the  day, 
And  beauty  lies  around  her  everywhere. 

Today  the  waters  of  the  smiling  sea 

Lap  the  white  sands  upon  the  peaceful  shore, 

The  sunset  swoons  upon  the  golden  waves, 

The  mountain  crests  the  falling  sunbeam  laves, 

But  lo !  those  worshipers   forevermore 

Have  vanished  and   they  only  be 

To  us  a  memory.     These  gray  walls  rise, 

A  monument  to  days  that  have  gone  by, 

For  they  were  built  at  Hope's  beginning  here, 

Ere  Freedom's  morning  shone  forth   full  and  clear; 

While  yet  the  land  did  sluml>er  silently, 

These  gray  old  walls  were  lifted  toward  the  skies. 


Mission   Days. 


Then  let  them  stand  to  mark  the  highway  trod 
By  pioneers  of  Progress  who  blazed  th'  way 
For  us  to  tread.     The  blessed  morn  drew  near, 
The  starlight  darkened  and  the  dawn  was  clear, 
And  neared  the  promise  of  the  coming  day 
When  they  were  reared  and. dedicate  to  God. 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  OLD  MISSIONS.     (1897.) 

That  dim  old  Past,  that  yesterday  of  Time 
Which  sleeps  behind  the  centuries  afar, 
As  sleeps  behind  a  cloud  the  sun  or  star, 
Has  wondrous  story  on  its  page  sublime 
Of  this  fair  land  that  we  today  do  hold, 
Sought  first  by  white  man  for  its  wealth  of  gold, 
Coming  from  o'er  the  sea,  the  calm,  great  sea, 

That  clasps  the  smiling  land 

With  foam-white,  tender  hand. 

No  orchards  grew  upon  the  valley's  breast, 
No  vintage  ripened  in  the  smiling  sun, 
Only  the  wild-flowers  blossomed  one  by  one, 
A  miracle  of  beauty  each,  and  fair 
As  the  gold-dropping  sunbeams  which  did  play 
Amid  the  oaks  whose  falling  acorns  lay 
Upon  the  ground,  food  for  those  savage  sons, 
The  tawny  children  which  the  land  did  know, 
And  cradled  fondly  centuries  ago, 

Before  the  white  man  came, 

With  Cross  and  altar  flame. 

The  soft  sigh  of  the  leaves  that  swayed  upon  their  boughs 

Held  voice  for  them  that  mingled  with  their  dreams 

The  silver  melodies  of  crystal  running  streams, 

And  the  far  murmur  of  the  sleeping  sea 

Which  the  breeze  brought  them  as  they  wandered  free. 

All  were  the  Great  Spirit's  own,  down-breathing 

Into  their  hearts,  a  benediction  weaving, 

Which  wrapped  them  like  a  prayer  and  made  them  glad, 

As  if  He  stood  with  men 

On  hillside,  plain   and   glen. 

This  great  wide  land  was  very  fair  and  bright 
Ages  agone,  as  it  is  still  today; 
The  golden  sunbeams  all  about  it  lay, 
The  mountains  lifted  faces  touched  with  light, 
Crowned  with  the  glory  of  the  sun  and  stars. 
Not  oft  a  cloud  spread  out  its  misty  bars 
Across  the  sky  within  whose  vast  blue  deep 
The  summer  lay   in  lang'rous  calm   asleep; 
The  scent  of  bay  was  sweet  within  the  air, 

And  all  the  starlit  dusk 

Breathed  scent  of  rose  and  musk. 

Ah !  this  the  land  the  Sun  wooed  for  his  own, 
And  wove  his* beams  into  a  spell  of  bliss, 
Mantled  its  mounts  in  gold  and  amethyst, 

When  day  declined, 

And  earth's  brown  children  gathered  at  their  feet, 
And  lit  their  altar  fires,  and  danced  their  fleet, 
Wild,  savage  dances,  and  sang  of  their  sires, 
And  the  swift  flight  of  arrows  that  did  smite 
Their  ruthless  foes,  as  when  the  day  retires, 


Night  flings  her  dusky  javelins,  and  there 
Smites  with  her  dark  the  world,  till  the  bright  sun 
Rises  again  and  puts  out  one  by  one 

The  many  shining  stars, 

Lifting  his   golden   bars. 

How  many  years  have  slipped  adown  the  past 
Since  first  the  Fathers  came  and  builded  here 
The  Mission  walls!  'Twas  then  that  Hope  drew  near 
In  her  white  garments,  on  whose  spotless  hem 
The  Cross  was  broidered,  and  in  her  hand  she  bore 
The    sacred    crucifix,    and    the    diadem 
Of  a  new  life  lit  by  the  morning  star 
Of  coming  Progress.     O  day  of  Time's  days! 
When  on  these  sunlit  shores  there  softly  fell 
The  waking  echoes  of  the  Mission  bell, 

Stirring  the  silent  air 

With  call  to  praise  and  pray'r. 

O  how  the  red  man  wrought  through  years  of  toil 

To  rear  these  walls!     Each  hammer's  stroke  that   fell 

Upon  the  slumb'ring  silence  was  the  knell 

Of  the  old  savage  Past;  each  tower  that  rose 

Under  the  blue  sky  shining  in  its  light, 

The  sure-poised  finger  of  fair  Prophecy 

Pointing  unto  that   future,  which  was  white 

With   peace,   and   which   should  supersede  the  night 

Of  Superstition;  the  dawn  was  breaking, 

A  fairer  day  of  promise  then  was  waking, 

The  brighter  Future  stood 

Pregnant  with  coming  good. 

O  land,  O  land  of  ours!  the  early  morn, 

Shining   and    clear,    with    pulses   beating  high, 

Was  on  your  hills,  its  light     within  your  sky, 

When  to  these  Missions  gathered  peacefully 

Thousands  of  savage  red  men  who  were  taught 

The  art  of  husbandry;  the  long  years  brought 

But  peaceful  conquest;  the  wigwam  vanished  quite, 

Pueblos  sprang  to  life,  the  fertile  plains 

Were  dotted  o'er  with  many  lowing  herds, 

And    fields   were   rich   with   harvest-ripened    grains; 

The  olive's  silver  leaf  stirred  in  the  bree/e 

Like  a  wind  lute,  and  gentle  harmonies 

Woke  in  the  sunny  vineyards  on  the  slopes 

Of  the  gre  t  hills,  and  Plenty's  self  awoke 

Like  some  fair  goddess,  open-eyed,  serene, 

And  silently,  afar, 

Rose  coming  Empire's  star. 

Listen!  the  sound  of  swift-advancing   feet! 

A  new  race  comes,  for  it  ye  paved  the  way, 

O  Mission-builders!     but  ye  must  not  stay, 

Time  lays  his  hand  upon  your  crumbling  piles. 

Make  way  for  Empire!     Earth's  dusky  children  heard, 

And  they  have  vanished.     No  longer  smiles 

The  wildwood  flower  for  them,  nor  lingers  near 

The   faithful   ox   to   draw  the  willing  plow, 

The  vineyards  know  them  not,  the  purple  grape 

Is  plucked  by  other  hands,  the  Fathers  wake 

To  see  new  faces  at  their  altars  stand, 

Facing  the  New,  the  Old 

Stands  with  its  story  told. 


30 


MISSION    SAN    GABRIEL. 


^^v 

THE          A 

UNIVERSITY) 


s 


Mlonfys  an6  Seasons. 


"The  sea  dreams  by  out  golden  sands." 


HOW  THE  NEW  YEAR  COMES  TO  US. 

O  Land  of  balm  and  Land  of  Sun  ! 
Where  Winter  holds  within  his  noon 
But  lingering  summer  days  of  bloom, 
But  calm  of  sky,  and  calm  of  sea, 
And  grandeur  of  immensity; 
Where  clouds  move  white  above  our  head, 
Like  young  lambs  which  are  shepherded 
By  the  soft  breezes  which  do  run 
Light-footed  as  the  golden  hours, 
To  steal  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers. 

Where  close  against  the  doors  of  Dawn, 
Our  vast  high  mountain  thrusts  its  head, 
With  Winter's  whiteness  garmented; 
While  maiden   Summer  stands  below, 
With  perfumed  breath  and  orange  snow. 
The  Young  Year  with  his  skies  of  blue 
She  feeds  with  blossoms  and  with  dew; 
And   lo!     upon   his   natal   morn 
Weaves   robes  of  harvests,   fashioned   fair 
As  bloom  of  flowers  and  sunlit  air. 

The  sea  dreams  by  our  golden  sands, 

The  palms  stretch  slender  fingers  down 

To  toy  with  sunbeams  in  the  crown 

The  Xew  Year  wears.     The  smell  of  musk, 

Of  rose  and  lily  fills  the  dusk 

Of   twilight   hours.     The   silver   moon 

Seems  lying  in  delicious  swoon 

Amid  the  stars.     The  Xew  Year  stands 

With  emerald  paths  to  walk  upon, 

And  bird-songs  flowing  on  and  on. 

The  blue  sky  smiles  upon  the  sea, 
The  sea  smiles  back  upon  the  sky, 
The  cradled   islands  lying  by 
Feel  Summer's  kiss  and  smile  with  them, 
While  Summer  trails  her  garment's  hem 
'Cross  shining  sea  and  shining  land, 
And  gentle  breezes  tiptoe  stand 
To  kiss  the  Xew  Year  on  the  mouth. 
With  kisses  warm  from  their  own  south, 
And  all  the  listening  months  stand  by 
In  mute  and  waiting  ecstacy 
Beneath  a  glad  and  smiling  sky. 

THESE  NEW  YEAR'S  DAYS. 

The  glorious  and  spring-like  air 

Falls    round    us   like   a    veil. 
And  through  it  all  the  opening  flowers 

Their  perfumed  sweets  exhale. 

Upon  the  cedar's  topmost  limb 

The  spider's  silver  thread 
Sways  hack  and   forth — a  shining  line, 

The  sunbeams  love  to  tread. 


The  flies  buzz  in  and  out  between 

The   needles  of  the  pine, 
The  butterflies,  like  bright-winged  flowers, 

Float  through  the  warm  sunshine. 

I  hear  a  little  bird  afar, 

Within  some  high  treetop, 
Sing  sweet  and  clear — the  echoes  ring 

As   they   were   loath   to   stop. 

And  all  the  world   a  willing  ear 

Is  turning  to  the  sound, 
And  e'en  the  gray  old   rocks,   unseen, 

Fling  all  the  music  round. 

The  Xew  "\  ear  opens  wide  its  eyes 

On   emerald   hills   so   fair; 
And  Beauty  smiles  beneath  the  skies, 

And  walketh  everywhere. 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  INVITATION.     (1903.) 

O  come,  O  come!  the  days  are  fair, 

The  land  is  em'rald-drest  and  sweet. 

With  perfumes  flowing  everywhere, 

With  growing  grasses  at  our  feet! 

The  air  is  swept  by  glad  birds'  wings, 
And  golden  butterflies  drop  down 

To  where  the   fragrant  lily  springs, 

And  countless  buds  the  rose-bush  crown. 

The  palms  sway  softly  in  the  breeze, 

The   fragrant  violet   smiles   and  blooms 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 

And   dreams  through  all  the  golden  noons. 

The  mountains  lift   their  crests  of  snow, 

All  touched  with  colors  warm  and  bright, 

Smiling  upon  the  vales  below 

That    dream    in    Summer's   golden   light. 

And  when  the  dusk  her  curtain  draws, 

And  star-crowned  Xight  comes  softly  near, 

She  shakes  her  perfumed  garments  out, 
And  fragrance  fills  the  atmosphere. 

And  here  within  this  West  we  find 
The  sense  of  an  unfettered  rest, 

And  largeness  that   is   unconfined, 

And   peace  on    Mother   Xature's  breast. 

And  here,  near  shining  silver  seas, 

The  orange  groves  and  vineyards  fair 

Fill  smiling  space,  and  honey  bees 

Buzz  gaily  through  the  golden  air. 

The  Xew  Year  comes  with  dainty  feet, 
And  robes  of  sunlight  golden  fair, 

Stealing  with   steps  so  soft  and   fleet 

From  where  his  starlit  pathways  ;ire. 


11 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


He  comes  to  fill  this  golden  West 

With  yet  more  priceless,  richer  boons, 

And  make  the  coming  Future  blest 

With  Freedom's  fullness,  and  her  noons 

Golden  with  riches  of  delight. 

So  hither  come  where  Promise  smiles 
Forever  fair  before  the  sight, 

Through  leagues  on  leagues  of  perfumed  miles. 

All  ye  pale  dwellers  'mid  the  snows, 

Come,  and  be  glad  where  Nature  lies, 

Sun-robed  and  fair,  and  ever  flows 

Beneath  these  clear,  unclouded  skies, 

Health's  living  stream ;   the  atmosphere 
Is  full  of  balm,  and  June's  sweet  air 

Seems  pulsing  through  December's  days — 
Perfume  and  growth  are  everywhere. 

Then  hither  come;  the  days  are  fair, 
The  land  is  em'rald-drest  and  sweet 

With  perfumes   flowing  everywhere, 
With  growing  grasses  at  our  feet. 


THE  NEW  YEAR.     (1885.) 


all 


Last  night  the  Old  Year  passed 
Scarred    with   guilt    and    sin  ; 

This  morn  the  New  Year,  pure  and  white, 
Time's  angel  ushered  in. 

The  starry  midnight  gates  were  flung 

Upon  their  hinges  wide, 
The  angels  dipped  their  silv'ry  oars  in 

Time's  incoming  tide. 

Swift  sailing  on  its  starry  course  upon  the 

airy  deep, 
The  Old  Year  saw  a  golden  boat  adown 

the   star-beams   sweep; 

And  when  it  touched  the  midnight  shores 

of  ether's  outmost  sea, 
The  Old  Year  wrapped  his  mantle  folds 

about  him   silently. 

And  when  the  morning  open  flung  its 

gates  within  the  East, 
The  New  Year,  crowned  and  sceptered, 

Stood  with  beckoning  smile  of  peace. 

II.     (December  31,  1901—  January  1,  1902.) 

The  Old  Year,   vanished   sentinel   of  Time, 
With  silent  steps  seeks  the  engulfing  Past, 

And  all  its  deeds,  both  lowly  and  sublime, 
Are  writ   on   its   imperishable  Vast. 

For  nothing  dies;  the  glory  of  today 
Was  given  birth  by  yesterdays  that  were; 

Great  deeds  are  deathless,  and  oblivion  keeps 
For  them  no  sealed  and  silent  sepulcher. 


Science  soars  upward  on  her  tireless  wings, 

Freedom  shakes  off  the  shackles  from  her  hands, 

Truth  halts  because  of  binding  chains  no  more, 
And  Superstition  as  her  captive  stands. 

0  great  Today !     We  hail  thee  as  a  child 

Of  all  Time's  ages,  and  the  New  Year's  dawn, 
Crowned  with  the  garnered  glory  of  the  centuries, 
Proclaims  the  corning  of  a  grander  morn. 

III.     (1890.) 

'ihe  year  is  young  yet,  but  still  it  hath  wept  tears 
Enough  to  drown  ten  thousand  hopes  of  men; 
It  hath  grown  sorrow-old  and  furrowed  with  its  fears, 
And  it  hath  torn  its  mother's  breast — the  dear  old 

Earth's — when 

It   did   hold  the  tempests   as   its  lash, 
And  sent  its  avalanches  down  with  crash 
As  if  some  star  was  raided  from  its  sphere. 

But  Nature,  with  gentle  hand,  is  seeking  now 

To  tame  the  boy,  to  heal  his  mother's  woes; 

And  the  warm  sun  is  nursing  her,  and  bow 

To  her  the  fairest  of  bright  skies— the  sunlight  flows 

In  golden  rivers  all  the  ether  through, 

And  grasses  green  are  springing  up  to  new 

Fresh  life  to  hide  her  scars — while  regenerate  stands 

The  Young  Year,  holding  in  his  clean-washed  hands 

Such  jewels  of  bright  hopes  of  harvests  stored 

In  rain-soaked  soil,  where  he  so  freely  poured 

His  wild  floods  out,  and  moaned  and   fretted  days 

On  days.  And  baby  buds  of  blossoms  laughed  with  him, 

And  fragrant  breezes  through  the  forest  ways 

Breathe  in  sweet  ecstacy  their  exquisite  hymn. 

THE  OLD  YEAR  AND  THE  NEW. 

[At  an  entertainment  in  Santa  Barbara,  in  1876,  in  response  to 
a  toast  to  the  New  Year,  Mrs.  Otis  recited  the  following 
original  p:em:J 

The  Newsboy's  Vision. 

Time  stands  and  blows  his  bubbles  into  space, 

And  far  into  the  deep  and   fathomless 

Depths  of  dim  immensity,  uprising 

Swift  beyond  the  stars,  beyond  the  path  of 

All  the  circling  worlds,  outstretching  far  the 

Verge  of  all  the  planetary  spheres,  out 

Into   unbeginning   and    unending 

Space,  mingling  with  the  old  Eternity 

That  was,  and  is,  and  shall  be,  flies  swift  and 

Silent  as  the  wind's  shadow,  the  dead  Old  Year. 

Asleep  in  my  low  attic  chamber, 
On  my  poor  little  pallet  of  straw — 

1  had  drawn  the  rags  closely  about  me, 
For  the  night  was  chilly  and  raw. 

Above  me  the  stars  were  a-beaming, 
They  gleamed  through  the  cracks  overhead, 
And  the  moon  made  a  glorious  pathway 
Of  light  from  the  sky  to  my  bed. 


32 


The  New  Century. 


All  at  once — was  I  waking  or  dreaming? — 
Coming  down  on  those  silvery  stairs 
Which  the  moonbeams  had  built  in  the  night-time, 
Pure  and   bright   as   a   penitent's   prayers, 

Was  a   form  unsullied,  untainted, 
Untouched  by  a  blot  or  a  stain; 
Its  robes  were  as  spotless  as  heaven, 
Its  feet  were  as  swift  as  a  flame. 

When  it  touched  on  the  star-lighted  ether, 
On  earth's  outer  limits  of  air, 
Time  reined   in  his  steeds   for  a  moment 
And  crowned  and  sceptcred  it  there. 

Then  out  through  the  gates  of  the  midnight — 
The  door  of  the  East  was  ajar— 
His  robe  like  a  shroud  wrapped  around  him, 
The  Old  Year  vanished  afar. 

And  as  Morn  with  her  soft  rosy  fingers 
Flung  open  the  gates  of  the  East, 
The  New  Year  looked  out  from  its  chambers 
With  a  smile  and  a  blessing  of  peace. 

THE  NEW  CENTURY.     (1901.) 

Great  monarch  Time,  with  centuries  of  years 
Upon  his  forehead  like  a  shining  crown, 
Looking  the  pathway  of  the  ages  down, 

Still  grand  as  noblest  manhood  he  appears 

With  face  unwrinkled  and  with  arm  as  bold 
As  dauntless  hero's  facing  hated  wrong, 
By  conscience  armed  and  by  the  right  made  strong, 

He  moveth  on  while  ages  new  are  told. 

And  glad  he  looks  upon  this  Land  of  Sun, 

And  fain  would  halt  a  moment  by  the  way, 
So  rare  its  beauty  and  so  bright  its  day; 

Great  monntained  land,  and  land  of  vales  that  run, 

All  blossom-crowned  and  harvest-filled  and  fair, 

From  mounts  to  sea;  here  smiling  Plenty  waits 
And  bids  the  world  enter  her  golden  gates, 

Where  riches  lie  ungathered  everywhere. 

Time  opes  his  treasures  and  to  us  he  throws 
The  keys  of  Empire  to  unlock  the  gates 
Of  world-wide  commerce,  which  impatient  waits, 

Its  mighty  stream,  like  tidal  overflows, 

Seeking  an  inlet  to  this  plenteous  land. 

In  the  clear  dawn  of  this  new  Century's  day 
We  rise  to  meet  it — in  the  broad  highway 

Of  ceaseless  Progress,  lo!  we  beckoning  stand. 

II.     (1902.) 

We  stand  and   face  the  centuries  of  time, 

The  New  is  here  with  wonders  most  sublime, 

With  strange  new  powers  progressive  manhood  stands, 

The  key  to  Nature's  laws  within  his  hand. 

The  lightnings  he  may  marshal  at  his  word, 

The  air  to  speech  is  at  his  bidding  stirred, 

The  very  stars  he  measures  and  doth  weigh, 

He  gives  to  night  the  brightness  of  the  day. 


The  Iron  Horse  moves  on  with  thund'rous  tread, 
By  giant  steam  a  harnessed  courser  led; 
For  him  the  lightnings  leap  the  mighty  seas, 
And  reach  the  shores  of  the  antipodes. 

And  at  their  gates  he  puts  his  list'ning  ear,  * 
And  lo!  their  whispers  he  may  plainly  hear. 
Man  groweth  to  be  master  of  the  world, 
The  flag  of  Science  he  hath  wide  unfurled. 

The  hoary  rocks  their  secrets  yield  to  him, 
Star-speech  is  heard  through  all  the  midnight  dim 
He's  rent  the  veil  from  "Nature's  hidden   face, 
And  now  he  stands  where  he  can  clearly  trace 

The  laws  that  govern  her,  and  make  them  stand 
As  willing  servants  ready  at  his  hand; 
As  king  he  stands,  as  monarch  of  the  earth, 
In  this  bright  morning  of  the  Century's  birth. 

No  more  the  slave  of  Ignorance  he  waits, 
For  he  may  now  unlock  the  long-closed  gates 
Of  Knowledge,  and  proudly  lay  his  scepter  there. 
Climb  to  his  throne,  monarch  of  earth  and  air. 


THESE  JANUARY  DAYS.     (1892.) 

The  days  slip  by  so  calmly  bright  and   fair; 

The  clouds  troop  lightly  and  no  raindrops  fall; 

The  sunbeams  pour  a  flood  of  golden  sheen; 

The  air  is  balmy,  breathing  soft  and  low; 

The  flowers   shed   fragrance,  filling  everything 

With  odors  sweet,  as  in  fair  days  of  June, 

And  like  a  flower  with  wings  the  butterfly 

Finds  shining  paths  along  the  sunny  air, 

While  the  bees'  hum  pleases  our  listening  ears. 

With  the  wings  of  gossamer  the  happy  flics 

Make  rainbow-shining  as  they  flit  along. 

The  little  buds  upon  their  slender  stems 

Are  dreaming,  summer-like,  while  grasses  green 

Show  slender  tongues  that  yet  shall  whisper  low 

The  symphonies  of  wind  as  light  they  pass. 

Dawns  show  their  gold,  while  sunsets  are  aflame 

With  amber  lights  and  richest  crimson  glow. 

The  stars  look  down  from  purpling  evening  skies, 

Their  silver  arrows  falling  on  the  hills, 

Their  silver  rain  flooding  the  sleeping  vales. 

Night  holds  her  breath  while  Beauty  kisses  her, 

And  dreams  of  Eden.     Mountain  heights  look  down 

Star-crested,  while  the  smiling  moon  touches 

Caressingly  their  shoulders.     The  mocking 

Bird,  in  the  clear  midnight  hush,  oft  wakens 

And  sings,  and  jubilant  echoes  answer 

To  his  song.     How  sway  the  golden  orange 

Spheres !  twinkling  'mid  thick  boughs  like  starry  worlds 

Within  an  under  firmament.     Winter 

Here  is  flower-crowned,  glorious,  strong-limbed, 

A  Hercules  with   fair  Adonis  face, 

Which  Nature's  marshaled  armies  spring  to  greet, 

While  Earth,  his  worshiper,  adorns  herself 

With  beauty,  nursing  with  care    her  many  charms. 


33 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


A  FEBRUARY  DAY.     (1901.) 

The  world  around  is  wondrous  fair  and  bright, 
Flooded  with   fragrance  and  with  radiant  light; 
A  crown  of  beauty  on  th'  emerald  bills, 
A  voice  of  music  in  the  flowing  rills, 
A   tide  of  song  within  the  upper   air, 
Where  glad  bird-life  is  flitting  everywhere, 
A  glory  on  the  trees  that  catch  the  sun, 
Where   'mid   the  leaves  the   golden    ripples   run, 
Chased  by  the  laughing  breeze  whose  soundless  feet 
Trip  gaily  as  the  light,  and  are  as  fleet. 

* 

This  month  has  stolen  the  smile  of  the  May, 

Her  robes  are  as  fair,  her  colors  as  gay, 

Her  skies  as  bright  as  June's  shadowless  ones, 

Her  days  are  as  golden  and  warm  as  her  suns, 

And  oh!  there's  a  heart  in  the  music  that  pours 

From  th'  throat  of  the  lark  as  upward  it  soars; 

A  heart  in  the  fragrance  of  blossoming  things, 

In  the  tender  young  grass  as  upward  it  springs; 

And  my  own  heart  grows  glad  with  th'  beauty  which  lies 

On  the  bosom  of  earth  and  the  face  of  the  skies. 


Breast  slumber,  languishing,  odorous  noons, 
And  warm-shining  suns,  all  golden  in 
Garments  of  light?     AVhat  meanetb  the  pall  that 
Is  spread  'twixt  us  and  the  sun-lighted  spaces 
Of  sky?     Let  the  wind  kiss  its  face  and  bear 
It  with  light  wings  away,   for  lo!  the  Sun's 
Loving  children  do  long  for  the  light  of 
His  smile,  and  even  the  poppies  -grow  pale 
On  the  hillsides  so  fair,  and  the  purple- 
Eyed  grasses  do  bend  as  if  saying  a 
Prayer  for  his  coming.     This  pavement  of 
Cloud  is  not  the  thing  for  thy  feet,  O  bright 
God  of  Day !  but  sky-burnished  sapphire  and 
Kmpyrean  blue  shouldst  thou  tread,  while  lances 
Of  light  and  gold-dust  of  sunbeams  should  fill 
The  wide  deeps  about  thee.     O  Helias, 
Smile!  and  break  through  the  curtains  of  mist,  then 
Orange  trees  with  golden  bells  laden  shall 
Pour  out  their  rhythmical  sweets,  and  the  air 
Shall  grow  glad,  and  earth's  blossom-filled  pulses 
Shall  stir,  as  she  drinks  in  the  wine  of  thy 
Light,  and  feels  the  warm  kiss  of  thy  lips. 


MARCH— 'TIS  ONLY  SPRING.     (1898.) 

The  fronded  palms  are  lifted  o'er  my  head, 
The  roses  climb  into  the  eaves'  broad  arms, 
And  nestle  there  the  birds,  safe  from  alarms, 

And  unto  beauty  this  fair  day  is  wed. 

No  harsh  winds  blow  across  the  tender  skies, 
The  golden  air  is  full  of  sweet  perfumes, 
Morn  in  the  east  the  whole  sweet  world  illumes; 

Like  walls  of  amethyst  the  mountains  rise. 

O  far,  so  far  into  the  blue  above, 

Robed  in  the  glory  of  this  glowing  morn, 

Like  vanquished  hosts  the  shadows  have  withdrawn, 

As  fleeth  Hate  before  the  light  of  Love. 

The  wondrous  beauty  of  the  blooming  flowers, 
The  dreamy  tenderness  of  earth  and  air, 
The  summer  brightness  brooding  everywhere 

From  early  morn  to  evening's  rosy  hours, 

Make  us  forget  'tis  only  Spring  today, 

That  loitering  Summer  walkest  months  before, 
And  they  must  pass   before  she'll  ope  the  door 

And  walk  with  Time  along  her  flower-paved  way. 

But  O!  this  land!  this  land  of  song  and  light, 
Of  shining  skies  that  hardly  know  a  cloud, 
Where  winds  are  stilled,  nor  seldom  breathe  aloud; 

A  charm  like  Summer's  is  on  vale  and  height. 


THESE  CLOUDED  APRIL  DAYS. 

O  sky !  cloud-wrapped  and   frowning  so  darkly, 
What  grim,  moody  madness  hath  seized  thee?  O 
Where  is  the  sunshine  of  April — the  sweet, 
Dreamy,  languorous  days  that  belong  to 
Our  fair,  semi-tropical  clime,  on  whose 


APRIL'S  CLOSE.     (1896.) 

Smile,  smile,  O  Day!  in  thy  beauty  and  gladness; 

Laugh  with  the  Dawn  as  she  comes  over  the  hills, 

Trailing  her  long,  flashing   ribbons   of  rills. 

O  the  blue  of  the  sky  is  cloudless  and   deep! 

Broader  than  earth  is  its  infinite  sweep; 

Stars  sleep  in  its  heart,  soft  curtained  by  light, 

And  the  soul  of  Day  in  ecstatic  delight 

Broods  over  the  world,  o'er  this  clime  of  the  Sun, 

Where  soft-footed  and  glad  the  light  breezes  run 

O'er  oceans  of  bloom,  and  April  is  gay 

With   roses  and  lilies,  as   fair  as  the  May 

In  blossoming  glory,  with  bosom  as  warm 

As  dewy  sweet  June's;  and  the  purpling  Dawn 

Forever  finds  Summer  asleep   in  our  vales, 

Where  waveth  the  palm,  and  never  there  fails 

The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  bees, 

The  shimmer  of  light  on  the  leaf-laden  trees. 


AN  APRIL  OUTLOOK.     (1904.) 

[From    "The   Bivouac."] 

The  park  lies  close  beneath  my  window  here, 
The  tall,  green  trees  within  the  air  so  clear 
Are  all  uplift,  like  pinnacles  of  flame; 
The  sunshine  floods  each  leaf,  they  seem  to  drain 
Its  golden  glory,  and  they  so  lightly  dance 
As  the  soft  bree/e  doth  make  its  slow  advance. 

The  hills  like  perfect  emeralds  glow  and  gleam, 
The  vales  are  bright  in  their  rich,  grassy  sheen, 
And  flowers  are  nodding  in  the  sunshine  bright. 
Whose  golden  arrows  take  their  shining  flight, 
Filling  the  air  as  if  'twere  summer  here, 
And  earth  were  breathing  June's  sweet  atmosphere. 


34 


Sem  i-  Tropic    A  pril. 


How  blue  the  sky !     A  wondrous  vast  it  is, 
Filled  with  impenetrable  mysteries; 
How  blue  the  lake  beneath  the  bending  sky, 
And  grand  the  mountains  here  uplifted  high, 
Cradling  the  vales  within  their   fond  embrace. 
Crowning  with  glory  the  old  Earth's  sweet  face. 

Daisies  are  looking  to  the  sun,  and  lo! 

The  modest  violet  its  sweet  face  does  show; 

'lall  eucalypti  whisper  to  the  light, 

And  countless  birds  are  winging  their  glad  flight, 

As  if  the  smiling  sunshine,  beckoning,  drew 

Them  on  and  on  its  unseen  pathways  through. 

O  beautiful,  so  beautiful  and  fair 

The  outlooks  from  my  vine-wreathed  windows  are ! 

In   flame-like   colors  do  the  acacias   glow. 

Like  bright  fire-opals  countless  blossoms  show, 

And  the  still  lake  is  like  an  eye  of  light 

That  earth  has  lifted  to  the  sunshine  bright. 

O  summer  world !     O  summer  land  of  ours ! 
Breathing  the  fragrance  of  undying  flowers, 
Girdled  by  mountains  and  the  mighty  sea, 
Fondled  by  Growth  in  all  her  witchery. 
Xo  land  like  thee  beneath  the  glowing  sun, 
No  land  so  fair  since  Eden's  days  were  done. 

SEMI-TROPIC  APRIL.     (1893.) 

Fickle  and  fair  is  April  in  the  East, 

Dimpled,  sometimes  with  snows,  sometimes  with  flowers; 

How  different  is  she  from  this  maid  of  ours, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  blossoms  in  her  hair, 

Sun-crowned  with  light,  and  lovely  everywhere, 

With  happy  birds  which  fill  the  air  with  song; 

With  grasses  lying  like  an  emerald  along 

The  paths  she  walks;  with  skies  which  be 

Cloudless  as  June's,  as  deep  with  mystery 

Of  boundlessness.     How  gay  her  ribboned  streams, 

Like  silver  shining  in  her  valley's  lap! 

How  golden  are  the  ever-shining  beams 

The  passing  days  with  tender  glances  wrap 

Around  her  morns  and  ever-glowing  noons! 

How  silvery  her  stars  and  shining  moons! 

Her  days  are  pearls  of  gladness,  and  her  eves 

Like  notes  of  song.     How  sweet  the  buds  she  weaves 

Of  orange  bloom  and  almond  blossoms'  snows ! 

How  rich  with  fragrance  every  wind  that  blows! 

Coy  as   a   maiden,  yet   divinely    fair 

As  perfect  womanhood  our  Aprils  are. 

0  ROSE-LIPPED   MAY!     (1891.) 

O  rose-lipped  May!     O  laughing  May! 
With  eyes  so  blue  and  cheeks  so  warm, 
The  poppies  lie  upon  thy  breast, 
The  lilies  lean  at  thy  caress, 
The  roses  kiss  thy  heart  at  noon, 
And  lo !  the  butterfly  is  winged 
With    color   like   a   sky-born    flower; 
The  bees  buzz  in  thy  golden  sun, 
The  days  grow  longer,  lingering 


As  if  to  drink  thy  breath  of  balm. 
The  winds  are  hushed  in  breathless  calm, 
And  ever-growing  grasses  stir, 
And  golden-hearted  daisies  shine, 
And  merry-hearted  crickets  sing, 
And  glad  birds  pour  their  melodies, 
And  laughing  waters  leap  and  run, 
And  all  thy  days  are  fair  and  sweet; 
As  if  the  earth  anew  were  born, 
And  Beauty  dreamed  upon  thy  breast, 
And  in  thy  arms  lay  cradled  Rest. 

THE  MAYTIME.     (1904.) 

O  the  day  is  laughing,  the  sunshine  bright 
Floods  the  whole  fair  world  with  its  golden  light, 
And  I  hear  a  whisper  amid  the  trees — 
The  joyous  whisper  of  the  Maytime  breeze. 

For  the  May  is  here  with  her  breath  of  flow'rs. 
Wearing  a  bright  necklace  of  golden  hours, 
And  the  waters  dance  in  the  shining  sun — 
Ripple  and  dance  till  the  day  is  done. 

The  glad  birds  are  singing  from  east  to  west, 
From  the  valley's  floor  to  the  mountain's  crest, 
While  the  bees'  hum  sounds  like  a  breath  of  song 
Which   the    fragrant  zephyrs  waft   along. 

And  the  butterflies,  like  winged   blossoms    fair. 
Sail  the  golden  deeps  of  the  sun-filled  air, 
All  the  world  is  a-smile  with  its  gladness,  too, 
From  the  fair  green  earth  to  the  ether  blue. 

O  wonderful  skies  of  May's  golden  dawns 
That  bridge  the  path  of  her  perfect  morns! 
Sun  and  fragrant  her  noons  here  lie 
In  a  dream  of  bliss  'neath  a  cloudless  sky. 

And  her  eyes  are  soft  as  a  zephyr  blown 
From  the  far  sweet  depths  of  a  tropic  zone, 
And  above  us  her  starry  tapers  gleam, 
AVhile  we  lie  in  her  arms,  a-dream,  a-dream. 

JUNE— A  SUMMER  PICTURE.     (1887.) 

The  peppers  swing  their  lazy  branches  low 

In  the  sweet  sunshine,   for  breeze-kissed  are  they, 

And  all  their  rosy  clustering  berries  play 

At  hide-and-seek  as  soft  winds  come  and  go. 

And  on  their  very  topmost  bough  I  hear 

A  happy  robin  singing  sweet  and  clear 

A  song  of  June.     I  wonder  what  it  knows 

Of  flowery  secrets;  what  its  ear  has  caught 

From  whispering  grasses  and   from  swaying  reeds, 

Stirring  where  summer  air  so  softly  blows. 

And  silver-tongued  the  shining  river  flows? 

A  DAY  IN  JUNE.     (1899.) 

O  day  of  days!  of  sweet  delight   and   love, 

Where  glowing  beauty  leans  from  sky  and  tree, 

From  everything  in  life,  below,  above, 

From  all  the  vastness  that  my  eyes  do  see. 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


White-shining  clouds  float  soft  in  sunny  skies, 
Just  tipped  at  morning  with  the  sunrise  gold, 

And  the  glad  blossoms  in  their  wondrous  dyes 
Do  countless  ever  'neath  my  feet  unfold. 

Mitered  wifh  light  the  lofty  mountains  rise, 
Like  other  worlds  above  the  sleeping  vales, 

And,  lo!  the  glory  of  the  sun-filled  skies 
Is  on  them  ever  till  the  sunlight  pales. 

O  glorious  altitudes !  they  lift 

The  sad  soul  higher  until  grief  slips  by, 
As  if  the  airs  of  Paradise  were  sift 

On  the  pure  winds  beneath  that  upper  sky. 

The  earth  is  soaked  in  sunbeams,  and  the  sea, 
The  air  is  full  of  song  and  fragrance  sweet, 

And  I  am  glad  if  only  but  to  be 

Where  fragrance,  song  and  light  and  beauty  meet. 

A  FOG-CLOUD  IN  SWEET  JUNE.     (1903.) 

The  sun  is  hid  beneath  the  cloud, 
A  cloud  of  fog  so  dark  and  grim, 

The  winds  are  stilled  nor  breathe  aloud; 
Within  the  trees  we  hear  the  hymn 

Of  happy  birds.     Their  song  is  sweet, 
They  do  not  miss  the  sunshine's  glow, 

Their  spreading  wings  are  just  as  fleet 
As  in  the  sunlight's  overflow. 

But  oh !  we  miss  the  cloudless  blue 
Paved  with  the  gold  of  sunlight  fair; 

We  miss  the  glory  shining  through 
The  vast  unhindered  deeps  of  air. 

Sweet  June  in  fog-wrought  garments  rare 
Is  not  the  June  we  long  have  known, 

With  sunbeams   for  her  tresses  fair, 

And  brightness  'round  her  pathways   thrown. 

Dear  June,  with  skies  of  cloudless  light, 

So  infinite  and  vast  and  deep, 
As  sun-filled  as  the  lily  white, 

Or  golden  poppy  on  the  steep — 

Come  back  and  fill  our  land  with  sun, 
Come,  light  the  glory  of  the  stars, 

Come  back  and  smile  as  you  have  done 

Since  first  you  passed  our  Southland's  bars. 

THE  FLOWER-LIPPED  JUNE. 

The  air  is  sweet,  and  all  the  breezes  stir 
With  perfumed*laughter,  then  rippling  run  to 
Meet  the  glorious  sunshine  as  it  so 
Softly  falls  on  leaf  and  tree  and  gently- 
Opening  flower  and  running  stream.     How  gleam 
Its  golden  arrows  in  the  brook,  and  how 
Lean  the  swaying  grasses  down  to  touch  the 
Flowing  crystal !     There  a  little  robin 


Comes,  its  breast  aglow  with  red,  and  dips  its 
Beak,  then  lifts  it,  while  a  diamond  drop 
Still  clings  to  it,  as  if  to  lend  a  sparkle 
To   its  song.     Reclining,  the  beautiful 
Hills  sweep  with  a  veil  of  mist  upon  their 
Foreheads,  while  the  blue  eye  of  June  looks  love 
To  them,  and  through  her  royal  lips  the  light 
And  odorous  breezes  breathe  Love's  softest 
Whispers,  and  the  stars  shine  forth  in  twinkling 
Ecstacy.     Ah !  flower-lipped   June,  with 
Fragrant  lilies  on  thy  snowy  lids,  and 
The  warm  rose  flushes  on  thy  dimpled  cheeks; 
Thou   art    for   lovers,   and  thy  breath  is  love 
And  perfumed  benediction. 


JUNE.     (1893.) 

Summer  is  with  us,  and  she  whispers  low 

In  fragrant  words  through  all  the  winds  that  blow. 

How  bright  the  blossoms  which  her  sweet  lips  press! 

How  smile  the  buds  her  tender  hands  caress! 

The  June-bright  skies  are  sapphire-like  and  fair, 

Bird-songs  have  not  a  single  note  of  care; 

Golden  the  wings  the  butterfly  doth  spread, 

And  rainbowed  those  of  bee  and  fly  o'erhead. 

I  catch  the  lily's  scent;  the  roses  sweet 

Pave  with  their  perfume  pathways  for  my  feet; 

The  palms  drop  shadows  cool  upon  the  grass, 

The  green  vines  nod  unto  me  as  I  pass; 

The  cricket's  chirp  sounds  merry  to  my  ear; 

The  humming-bird  is  sipping  nectar  near; 

The  world  is  bathed  in  sunshine  everywhere — 

Valley  and  mountain  top  and  deeps  of  air. 

Sweet  June,  stay  with  us,  O  sweet  June!  go  slow; 

Stay  long  to  glad  us,  do  not  haste  to  go. 


II.     (1894.) 

These  summer  days  are  golden  as  the  sun; 

The  sky  is  cloudless,  and  the  pulsing  air 
Breathes  like  a  spirit.     Breezes  run 

Fondling  the  blossoms  infinitely   fair; 
The  million  leaves  upon  the  many  trees 

Beat  joyously  their  numerous  small  hands, 
As  birds  sing  sweetly  from  amid  their  boughs; 

The  spider  spins  the  silver  of  his  bands 
In  his  white  tent,  bright-lying  there  between 

The  lilies  and  the  roses.     LTpward  twines 
Soft-footed,  noiselessly,  and  robed  in  green, 

The  fragrant  honeysuckle's  slender  vines, 
And  banksias,  fragrant  in  creamy  white, 

Bury  our  porches  in  their  living  Moom, 
Catching  the  golden  sunbeams  in  their  flight, 

Kissing  to  brightness  all  the  fragrant  gloom. 
Days  dream  upon  the  breast  of  sunny  Earth, 

Skies  touched  with  glory  bend  above  them  there; 
Fragrance  and  bloom  have  each  unhindered  birth, 

While  pure  and  still  as  a  white  saint  at  prayer 
The  light  drops  down. 


36 


Dying  July. 


in. 

June  is  the  month  of  flowers  and  bright  blue  skies 

The  wide  world  over;  scarce  a  shadow  lies 

Beneath  her  lids  of  rose,  her  cheeks  of  bloom. 

Her  days  are  long  and  sweet,  and  yet  they  pass  too  soon. 

Her  breath  holds  all  the  fragrance  sweet  of  violet, 

And  lily  fair,  and  clear-browed  mignonette, 

And  honeysuckle's   bloom ;  the  pansy's   face 

Is  lifted,  purple-eyed  and  fair, 

And  birds  sing  to  her,  breathing  everywhere 

Of  love  and  joy,  of  purity  and  peace; 

And  all  her  morns  stand  golden  in  the  East. 

Heaven  seems  not  very  far  when  June  is  here, 

'Tis  just  beyond  her  starlight  still  and  clear. 

IV.     (1900.) 
O  June!  sweet  bride  of  Beauty,  on  thy  brow 

The  Year  doth  lay  its  crown  of  many  flowers; 
The  Sun  doth  love  thee,  and  he  stealeth  now 

Up   Dawn's   bright   steeps   till   thy    fringed   pearls    of 

hours 
Are  nearly  all  filled  with  his  glowing  light, 

So  early  comes  he  and  so  late  doth  go; 
He  stands  upon  the  threshold  of  the  Night, 

And   says   good-bye   in   whispers   sweet   and   low. 
And  June's  starlighted  nights,  they  seem  to  be 

Filled  with  the  glory  of  some  far-off  sphere, 
Which  sinless  swings  within  immensity, 

While  its  o'erladen  fullness  falleth  here 
In  dews  of  silence  and  of  golden  light, 

And  blessed   fragrance,  such  as  Eden  knew 
When  this  new  world  first  climbed  the  starry  height 

And  shed  its  light  amid  the  fields  of  blue. 
O  in  that  Sometime  which  doth  lie  afar, 

Beyond  the  tides  of  Time's   unresting  sea, 
Beyond  the  light  of  farthest  sun  or  star, 

In  the  wide   realms  of  immortality, 
Will  not  blest  Junes  forever  blossom  fair 

In  brighter  glory  than  this  earth  may  know, 
And   God's  own   radiance  fill  them  everywhere, 
Till  suns  seem  dark  beside  their  wondrous  glow? 

DYING  JULY.     (1890.) 
How  smiles  the  illimitable  sky!  how 
Break  in  flooding  glory  on  the  hills  and 
The  far  mountain  tops,  on  the  wide  seas,  and 
The  sweet-sleeping  plains,  the  golden  tides  of 
Light.     Birds  sing  and  breezes  laugh  in  rippling 
Wantonness,  ami  the  leaf-tongued  trees  breathe  their 
Melodious  whispers  to  the  air.     Day 
Is  full  of  song,  and  soul,  and  beauty.     The 
Bright  skies  lean  earthward,  and  lay  their  soft  blue 
Like  a  lover's  hand  upon  the  mountains' 
Crest,  where  the  tall  pines  stand  sentinels,  with 
Faces  somber,  but  with  breasts  holding  the 
Light  of  centuries.     The  flowers  breathe  soft, 
But  their  petals  stir  as  if  warm  hearts  beneath 
Them    throbbed    in   tenderest   pulsations.      How 
Soft  the  air!  how  full  of  balm!  how  sapphire- 
Eyed  the  day!     How  rich  the  emerald  of 


Trees  upon  its  breast!     Xo  torrid  sun  to 
Torture  it.     No  lightnings  fierce  to  rend  its 
Calm  repose.     Xo  belching  thunders  to  break 
The  fragrant  silence.     Earth  smiles,  and  like  some 
Vestal  virgin  on  her  bier,  all  veiled  in 
Beauty,  clieth  July  within  our  tropic  calm. 

A  JULY  DAY  IN  SUNLAND.     (1903.) 
Flowers,  tall  trees,  blue  skies  and  shining  sun, 

Mountains  that   rise  unto  the  deeps  of  air, 
Birds  filling  deeps  where  sunbeams  run 

On  viewless  feet,  to  bless  earth  everywhere. 
Soft  breezes  blow  amid  the  many  leaves, 

The  grasses  beckon  us  along  the  way. 
Like  piles  of  gold  the  ripened  harvest  sheaves 

Jewel  the  fields  where  Plenty's  footsteps  stray. 
The  shadows  lie  asleep  beneath  the  palms, 

Green  vines  creep  up  and  cover  roof  and  wall. 
The  cricket's  song  is   free  from  all  alarms. 

And  soft  the  whisper  of  the  wild  bees'  call. 
Green  grasses  creep  unto  the  lake's  clear  brink. 

Bright   blossoms   smile  upon   the  sloping  green, 
And  there  a  water-rat  comes  down  to  drink, 

And  here  a  gold-winged  butterfly  is  seen. 

The  day  is  fair,  no  cloud  is  in  the  sky, 
Xo  shadow  lies  upon  the  wondrous  blue; 

How  gracious  is  the  air  with  fragrance  filled, 
As  fair  the  world  as  if  'twere  made  anew. 

Xo  sultry  heat  disturbs  our  golden  noon, 

Xo  sudden  storm  paints  blackness  on  the  sky, 

For  shining  days  are  Summer's  perfect  boon, 

And,  winged  with  light  and  peace,  they  pass  us  by. 

O  Summer  Land !     O  land  divinely  fair, 

With  swaying  palms  and  blossoms  manifold, 
With  cloudless,  infinite  deeps  of  air, 

Where  Summer  rests  on  seas  of  shining  gold. 
More  beautiful  art  thoii  than  other  lands, 

With  thy  vast  templed  hills  and  mountains  high, 
The  glory  of  thy  strength  unchallenged  stands, 

As  does  the  beauty  of  thy  vales  which  lie 

Like  fruitful  Edens  steeped  in  golden  light; 

Like  days  just  born  when  Time  itself  was  young, 
Thy  sweet  days  come  and  then  they  take  their  flight, 

Fair  as  those  days  when  Time  had  just  begun. 

A  CLOUDY  AUGUST  FIRST. 
A  day  of  clouds,  a  morn  of  mimic  showers, 

Like  raindrops  coming  down  with  careless  glee 
Into  this   rainless   Summer-Land  of  ours, 

Like  happy  wanderers  only  just  set  free. 
What  means  this  mood  of  Xature's,  why  does  she 
Drops  tears  instead  of  sunshine,  o'er  her  sky 
Draw  such  light  veil  of  clouds,  and  wantonly 

Tease  us  with  memories  of  days  gone  by, 
When  oft  we  listened  to  the  Summer's  chime 
Of  pattering  raindrops  upon  the  window-pane— 
The  rhythmed  melody  of  falling  rain? 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


Not  often  here  does  smiling  Summer  know 

A  wandering  cloud  upon  her  wondrous  blue, 
Save  at  Day's  close,  when  golden  evenings  show 

Lights  as  if  heav'n  itself  were  shining  through, 
Or  her  pale  dawns  brighten  with  rosy  light, 

When  all  the  East  unbars  its  gates  of  gold, 
And  silently  the  shadowed  Night  takes  flight, 

And  the  bright  Sun  his  banner  does  unfold, 
Till  flames  his  glory  on  the  sunrise  hills, 
And  all  the  sky  grows  luminous  with  light, 
As  rosy-winged  stands  Morning  on  the  height. 

SEMI-TROPIC  SEPTEMBER.     (1891.) 

September's   laughing   harvests, 

Her  skies  of  deepest  blue, 
Her  meadow-larks  and  singing-birds, 

Which  wing  the  wide  air  through— 
I  sing  of  them. 

Her  swaying  vines  and  roses, 

And  fields  of  growing  corn, 
Her  soft-winged,  fragrant  breezes, 

That  fan  the  cheeks  of  Morn— 
I  sing  of  them. 

Her  vineyards  purple-tinted, 

Her  green,  nut -laden  trees; 
Her  wide  alfalfa  meadows — 

Like  billowy  emerald  seas — 
I  sing  of  them. 

O  low-voiced  running  waters! 

O  waving  pine  and  palm ! 
O  spaces  orchard-broidered, 

And  filled  with  summer  calm — 
I  sing  of  you. 

September's  light  is  on  you, 

Her  dewy-lidded  eyes 
Drop  warm  and  tender  glances 

From  out  her  cloudless  skies. 

On   cedar  tree-tops  singing, 

The  mocking-bird  I  hear, 
And,  all  the  warm  air  filling, 

The  robin's  song  rings  clear. 

The  lark  pours  out  his  gladness, 

And  rises  to  the  sun, 
As  if  the  May-time  glory 

Again  to  earth  had  come. 

Rose-tinted   breaks  the  Morning, 

Golcl-paved  the  shining  Noon, 
And  Evening  feels  the  pulses 

Of  tender  bud  and  bloom. 

We  dream  through  golden  sunsets, 
Through  nights  of  stars  and  calm, 

We  wake  to  rose-hued  mornings, 
And  fear  no  storm's  alarm. 


SEPTEMBER.     (1882.) 

The  Summer's  noon  has  passed,  and  brown 

And  sadly  old  the  tall  hills  stand, 
Their  russet  robes  are  all  smoothed  down 

By  sober  Autumn's  careful  hand. 
No  rippling  folds  of  shining  green, 

With  daisies  gemmed  and  violet, 
About  their  giant  forms  are  seen; 

No  fingers  weave  their  coronet 
Of  buds  and   blossoms   dewy-eyed. 

No  more  the  golden-tasseled  corn, 
Which  every  wandering  breeze  has  spied, 

Waves  gaily  in  the  light  of  morn. 
The  old  oaks  spread  their  emerald  cool, 

Like  some  oasis  lifted  high; 
The  silver  of  each  shining  pool 

Gives  place  to  white  sands,  parched  and  dry. 
No  running  brooks  with  silver  tongues 

Murmur  sweet  music  through  the  glade. 
Yet  skies  are  blue  and   Summer  suns 

Through  all  the  Autumn  days  have  stayed. 
Still  through  the  golden  paths  of  light 

The  butterfly's  bright  wings  are  spread, 
The  humming-bird  his  jeweled  flight 

Takes  'mid  the  sweets  which  blossoms  shed 
In  garden  walks  where  roses  bloom, 

And  gay  lantanas  lift  their  heads, 
And  purple  heliotrope  is  strewn 

Above  the  glowing  garden  beds, 
And  fruits  hang  ripe  on  tree  and  vine, 

And  vineyards  riot  in  the  sun, 
And  only  Daylight's  swift  decline 

Notes  that  the  Summer  days  are  done. 


II.     (1893.) 

September  comes  with  her  soft-footed  tread, 

Sandaled  with  beauty,  and  with  sky  overhead 

Drowned  in  warm  sunshine,  as  delicious,  clear, 

As  if  the  splendor  of  the  June  were  here. 

How  peeps  the  Sun  down  the  dewy  dingles  sweet, 

Kisses  the  streams  as  on  they  run  to  meet 

The  shining  sea;  and  lays  his  web  of  gold 

O'er  the  hilltops  in  a  massive  fold, 

And   then   drops   downward  to  the  orchard-clad 

And  vineyard-covered  fields,  and  to  the  glad 

Sweet  gardens  where  the  roses  open  wide, 

Swaying  delighted  on  the  sunny  tide 

Of  air  balm-laden.     Birds  sing  sweet 

From  orange  boughs,  and  the  high  limbs  that  meet 

So  near  the  heaven  they  seem  to  touch  the  blue 

Where  scimitars  of  eucalypti  through 

The  golden  glory  seem  to  pierce,  as  fain 

They  would  touch  heaven,  and  then  again 

Beckon  to  earth  and  whisper,  leaf-tongued,  low 

Of  stars  and  skies  and  things  we  may  not  know. 

The  breezes  bathe  their  feet  in  shining  dew, 


38 


October  in  the  East. 


Running  each  morn  the  wide  warm  meadows  through; 
They  kiss  the  flowers,  which  nod  them  sweet  replies, 
Stir  morning-glories  till  they  ope  their  eyes 
In  purple  gladness,  woo  the  birds  to  sing 
As  if  'twere  some  glad  morning  of  the  spring. 

OCTOBER  IN  THE  EAST.     (1899.) 

October,  handmaid  of  the  passing  year, 

In  the  far  East  comes  golden-crowned  and  bright 

With  the  rich  splendor  of  her  woods,  which  near 

And  far  flash  into  glorious  light, 

As  if  the  Sun,  with  all  his  treasure-trove 

Hid  in  tbeir  leaves,  with  brightest  colors  wove 

A  splendid  diadem  for  the  Old  Year, 

Brighter  than  Summer's  rose  or  grassy  spear. 

The  blue  skies  bend  above  the  drowsy  earth, 

Which  laughs   no  longer  with  its  Summer  mirth; 

The  hills  are  brown,  the  blossoms  all  have  gone, 

But,  oh,  the  glory  of  the  woods !     I  long 

To  see  their  wondrous  face.     The  many  streams, 

Holding  the  gold  of  all  the  Sun's  bright  beams, 

Rush  singing  onward,  fed  by  Autumn  rains, 

Whose  chorus  breaks  into  wild,  rich  refrains. 

Sometimes  a  song-bird  calleth  from  the  trees, 

And  sometimes  Winter  whispers  to  the  breeze 

Of  his  near  coming,  and  the  waiting  world, 

Whose  lengthening  nights'  cool  shadows  are  unfurled. 

Shivers  so  softly  as  it  elingeth  yet. 

With  fading  face  and  heavy  eyelids  wet 

With  Autumn  showers  to  passing  Summer's  hand. 

The  skies  are  bright  which  bend  above  the  land, 

But  there's  a  traitor  in  the  camp  who  steals 

The  warmth  of  sunbeams,  and  who  quick  reveals 

His  frosty  javelins  and  hastes  to  smite 

All  growing  things,  and  like  a  veil  his  white 

Breath  covers  them  whene'er  the  starry  dark 

Drops  down  upon  the  world.     In  vain  we  hark 

For  his  swift   footsteps;  they  come  and  go 

Soft-footed  as  the  Winter's  falling  snow. 

Silent  as  Death  they  steal  through  forest  glade, 

And  wide,  still  meadows  in  the  evening  shade. 

Castles,  and  towers  and  waterfalls  be  leaves 

Ktched  on  the  window-panes,  nor  ever  grieves 

To  see  the  gentle  floweret  hang  its  head, 

Or  see  the  world  of  lovely  grasses  dead. 

A  merry  soul  he  is,  yet  cruel  too, 

And  blasts  of  cold  be  blows  his  fingers  through, 

And  winks  at  Winter  as  he'd  bid  him  see 

His  wanton  hand  upon  each  bush  and  tree. 

But  still  the  day  shines  bright  at  noontide's  hour, 

And  the  great    forests,   rich  in   beauty's  dower, 

Flame  into  splendid  color.     Rainbows  pale 

Beside  their  brightness,  and  the  arching  skies 

I. ike  one  great  gleaming  sapphire  rise; 

Xoon  floods  them  with  his  sunshine's  richest  gold. 

And  Earth  the  Indian  Summer  doth  enfold 

In  her  warm  clasp  until  the  daylight   fades, 

And  Jack  Frost  steals  again  from  hidden  glades, 

Smiting  the  Earth  till  Nature  slowly  dies, 

Or  in  a  swoon  of  pulseless  silence  lies. 


SEMI-TROPIC  OCTOBER.     (i88g.) 

Here  beneath  October's  sky, 
Where  the  joyous  butterfly 
Still  in  happy  gladness  floats, 
Where  the  music   from  the  throats 
Of  unnumbered  birds  still  rings, 
And  the  budding  blossom  springs, 
Sending  forth  its  dewy  sweets; 
Where  the  golden  sunrise  greets 
Verdant   fields  of  ripening  maize, 
Where  through  all  the  orchard  ways, 
Through  their  aisles  of  shade  and  sun, 
Is  the  ripening  orange  hung. 
And  the  vineyards  at  our  feet 
Flooded  are  with  juices  sweet, 
Comes  the  perfect  autumn-time, 
As  to  woman,  beauty's  prime. 

See  the  wind  across  the  corn 
Ripple  in  the  dewy  morn; 
See  its  emerald  billows  gleam, 
Tossing  in  the  amber  stream 
Of  the  sunlight's  shining  tide ! 
Bend  and  rise  the  tall  stalks  there, 
With  their  streaming  banners  fair. 

Half  asleep  the  morning  lies 
'Xeath  her  azure  tent  of  skies, 
But  at  length  the  droning  bee 
Wakes  amid  the  uplands  free; 
From  behind  the  emerald  wall 
Of  the  eucalypti  tall, 
There  is  heard  the  robin's  note 
On  the  silent  air  afloat; 
With  his  massive  wings  spread  wide 
Does  the  brown  hawk  slowly  glide 
O'er  the  walled  and  rocky  steeps, 
Frowning  o'er  the  canon's  deeps, 
And  the  mockingbird  sings  clear 
From  his  airy  hemisphere. 

Arms  of  snow  the  lily  lifts, 
And  within  the  orchard  rifts, 
Where  the  parted  boughs  do  swing, 
Lo!  the  oriole  comes  to  sing; 
And   the   twittering   sparrow   peeps 
As  the  early  worm  he  seeks. 

O  the  glory  of  our  skies! 
Deep  as  vast  infinities! 
Cloudless  as  a  perfect  June! 
Sweet  with  blossoms'  rich  perfume! 
All  the  air  is  pure  and  warm, 
All  untouched  by  cloud  or  storm, 
And  each  forest  leaf  is  crowned 
With  the  sunshine  falling  round. 
And  on  Nature's  throbbing  heart — 
Lovers  by  themselves  apart — 
October  leans  with  red  ripe  lips, 
Holding  in  her  finger-tips 
Roses  dewy-sweet  and  fair; 
Fuchsias   in  her  shining  hair. 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


Nature  leans  and  kisses  her, 
Where  the  wild  bees  are  astir, 
And  her  soft  red  lips  are  sweet 
As  the  red  rose  at  her  feet. 
And  the  splendor  of  her  glance 
Is  brighter  than  the  radiance 
Of  the  starry  eyes  of  May, 
Or  of  June's  most  perfect  day. 

OCTOBER.     (1893.) 

With  velvet- footed  tread  October  came, 

Gold  in  her  hair  and  roses  on  her  cheek; 

Fair  as  sweet  May,  her  fingers  not  yet  weak 

With  age,  but  dimpled  still  the  same 

As  when  the  glad  Year,  calling  her  by  name, 

Kissed  her  till  crimson  dyed  her  virgin  cheek, 

And  the  soft  breezes,  wandering,  sought  to  speak 

Of  her  rich  beauty.     Now,  in  mellow  tides 

The  sun,  as  .through  the  cloudless  skies  he  rides, 

Pours  out  his  light,  and,  tenderly  I  wist, 

Drapes  all  the  hills  in  gold  and  amethyst, 

And,  as  the  sunset  passes,  wraps  a  mist 

Of  royal  purple  round  them,  wherein  sleeps 

The  souls  of  sunbeams  passing  daylight  keeps. 

II.     (1897.) 

October  smiles  about  us,  while  her  days 
Grow  shorter,  and  her  pleasant  hillside  ways 
Are  brown  and  sere,  although  upon  them  yet 
Smiles  the  bright  sun,  his  golden  lancets  set 
In  the  full-bosomed   air,  where  softly  stir 
The  light-winged  breezes,  touching  palm  and  fir, 
Rippling  the  rose  leaves,  stooping  'mid  the  grass, 
Whisp'ring  of  summer  as  their  footsteps  pass. 

The  little  birds  among  the  many  trees 
Sing  sweet  and  clear  their  tuneful  harmonies; 
The  skies  above  us  bend  in  cloudless  light, 
Like  one  great  rounded  sapphire  to  the  sight; 
Warmth  nestles  in  the  daylight's  golden  noon, 
And  days  breathe  softly  as  in  some  half-swoon 
Of  sweet,  delicious  joy  that  has  its  birth 
In  the  rare  beauty  of  the  sky  and  earth. 

NOVEMBER  DAYS.     (1901.) 

The  golden  air  is  with  bright  sunshine  filled, 

And  countless  flowers  have  richest  fragrance  spilled 

Wherever  the  soft-footed  breezes  creep; 

All  angry  winds  are  hushed  and  lie  asleep 

Within  the  cradle  of  our  tropic  calm, 

Rirds  build  their  nests  with  never  fear  of  harm 

From  tempest's  wrath;  the  palm-tree  drops  its  shade; 

The  pepper-tree  a  canopy    hath  made 

Of  emerald  boughs,  with  clusters  thickly  set 

Of  rich  red  berries,  like  an  amulet; 

The  lily  lifts  its  white  and  timid  face, 

And  countless  roses  bloom,  while  here  a  place 

Is   found  for  every  flower  that  Summer  nursed. 

No  chilling  winds  around  them  ever  burst, 

No  dream  of  Winter  ever  frets  the  hours; 


Jeweled  with  light  and  with  November  showers, 

The  mossy  blades  are  pushing  through  the  sod, 

And  to  the  passing  breezes  gaily  nod, 

While  the  tall  trees  with  leaf-clad  branches  rise, 

Beckoning  the  birds  whose  songs  fill  all  the  skies. 

The  bee's  hum,  like  an  undertone  of  song, 

Sweeps  gaily  round  us,  and  flies  buzz  along 

On  rainbow  wings,  and  deep  the  cloudless  skies 

As  if  they  held  Time's  vast  infinities. 

O  grand  the  mounts  that  lift  their  sunny  crests 

Above  the  beauty  of  the  valley's  breast ! 

They  catch  the  glory  of  the  sunset's  glow, 

And  sometimes  wrap  themselves  in  robes  of  snow, 

But  Summer  ever  sitteth  at  their  feet, 

Forever  gives  to  them  her  incense  sweet, 

And  here  November  smiles  in  robes  of  green, 

And  woos  sweet  Summer  for  his  gracious  queen, 

And  treads  her  flower-paved  ways  with  smiling  face, 

And  unto  her  his  scepter  giveth  place; 

And  so  our  year  is  one  long  summertime, 

Nor  groweth  old;  'tis  June  in  its  fair  prime. 


SEMI-TROPIC  NOVEMBER  NOONS.     (1891.) 

The  noons  of  our  November  days  yet  hold 

The  dreaming  Summer,  her   eyes   still  blue 

And  their   drooping  lids    fringed  with   the  gold 

Of  sunbeams.     The  Sun  smiles  down  upon  her, 

Her  lover  still,  kissing,  with   soft,  warm  touch, 

Her  fragrant  lips.     The  perfume  of  the  rose 

And  the  fair  white  lily  fills  her  pure  breath, 

And  on  her  breast  there  blossoms  sweet  and   fair 

The  purple  heliotrope,  while  gay  verbenas 

Blush,  like  souls  of  cherubs  kissing  her  sweet   face, 

Which  Time  has  left  umvrinkled,  for  he  loves 

Her  so  he  would  that  she  should  never  pass 

From  out  his  tent  of  skies,  curtained  for  her 

With  glowing,  tropic  splendor.     But  Morn  and  Eve 

Does  Autumn  claim,  and,  like  the  shrew  she  is, 

Breathes  frostiness  upon  the  still  air,  drops 

Chill  upon  the  earth,  and  strives  to  reach,  like 

Some  usurping  thing,  sweet  Summer's  throne,  with 

Harsh  jostle  crowding  her.     But  Summer  wakes  at 

Noon,  trailing  her  flower-gemmed   robes,  up-looking 

To  the  skies,  which  bend  protectingly,  with 

Marshaled  hosts  of  sunbeams  filling  all  their 

Deeps;  with  light  and  perfumed  winds  running  so 

Soft-footed  to  and  fro  upon  their  glad 

Sentinel  errands,  hunting  the  depths  of 

Air  for  the  paved  crystal  haunts  where  hide  the 

Mustered  rains  waiting  their  bugle  call,  as 

Waits  the  Dawn  the  Sun,  and  the  brown  Earth  their 

Coming.     Summer  puts  her  ear  where  pale  and 

Sere  the  withered  grasses  lie,  and  the  rose 

Answers  her  smile,  and  the  cricket  gaily 

Chirps,  and,  amber-winged,  the  butterfly  lights 

On  her  shoulder.     She  hears  no  stir  beneath 

The  sleeping  earth  of  grassy  root  or  lifting 

Blade.     The  bird  seems  singing  unto  her  of 

Hope  and  coming  gladness.     For  a  day  she 


40 


November. 


Mayhap  rests,  cradled  in  chilliness,  and  we 

Cry,  "Fair  Summer's  gone!"     But  the  gray  mantle 

Of  the  swift-gathered  clouds  drops  shining 

With  its  crystal  floods,  which  the  thirsty  earth 

Drinks  up  with  gladness,  and  lo!  the  sun  bursts 

Forth   rejoicingly,  and   November,  with 

The  scepter  in  her  hands,  beckons  with  a 

Smiling  face,  and  eyes  made  lustrous  in  their 

Rain-washed  blue,  to  lovely,  semi-tropic    • 

Summer,  and  she  takes  again  her  throne, 

Her  feet  sandaled  with  bloom,  her  fair  robe's  hem 

Trailing  'mid  springing  grasses,  odorous 

Winds  breathing  from  east  to  west,  and  from  the 

Smiling  south  and  north.     How  wait  the  glad  suns 

Upon  her!     and  in  their  ether  deeps  the 

Planets  smile.     The  mountains  lift  their  purple 

Fronts  while  distance  seems  to  lessen.     Warm  the 

Glow  upon  their  rocky  lips!     Marvelous 

The  play  of  sunshine!  The  rock-lipped  canons 

Smile,  bearded  with  pines;  the  laughing  water 

Pours  free  its  silver  tides  through  their  deep  throats; 

The  butterflies  float  through  the  amber  air; 

The  birds  waken  to  fresh  caroling.     Bees 

Dream  honeyed  thoughts  and  clap  their  wings 

With  small,  innumerable  sounds  that  make 

A   full-voiced  anthem.     The  flies  look  sunward, 

Spreading  rainbow  wings,  while  down  beneath  the 

Soil  the  roots  stir  softly,  reaching  toward 

The  light.     The  Old  Year  smiles,  for  Summer  still 

Is  here,  and  all  the  earth  sings  for  her  ears 

Songs  sweet  with  resurrection. 

NOVEMBER.     (1892.) 

A  song-bird  sits  upon  my  porch  and  sings 

Songs  that  are  full  of  summer  joy  and  rest, 

As  though  he  held  his  heart  within  his  breast; 

A  lovely  butterfly  with  golden  wings 

Floats  like  a  blossom  on  the  sunny  air; 

Fragrant  and  sweet  the  many  blooming  things 

That  make  my  winter  garden  bright   and   fair; 

The  leaves  turn  to  the  sunshine,  shimmering  the  while, 

The  ripened  berries  in  the  pepper  trees 

Hold  in  their  rosy  globes  the  reddened  glow 

Which  constant  Sun's  warm  kisses  will  impart; 

The  grass  is  golden  where  does  fall  the  smile 

Of  the  warm  sunshine.     Flies  and  bees 

Make  gentle  murmur  in  the  noonday's  heart; 

Calm  the  wind's  breath  as  though  it  were  asleep; 

As  night  does  fall  the  moon  does  upward  creep, 

Set  round  with  stars,  like  shining  points  of  gold, 

Seeing  a  world  as  fair  with  blossoming 

As  it  were  summer  or  sweet-budding  spring. 

DECEMBER.     (1886.) 

The  year  is  passing,  yet  December's  light 

Falls  'round  us  still  in  glowing,  golden  sheen. 

And  each  fair  day  betwen  its  dawn  and  night 

Smiles  like  a  flower  its  sheltering  leaves  between. 


II.      (1893.) 

Dream   we   amid  the  flowers  and   'neath  bright   skies, 
Blue  as  a  turquoise  and  cloudless  in  their  light 
Of  golden  sunbeams.     The  days  take  flight 

Winged  with  warm  zephyrs  like  the  breath  of  May, 

Laden   with  sweetness,  and  lo!  the  butterflies 
Flutter  like  blossoms  that  have  stolen  wings 
To  seek  the  happy  robin  while  he  sings, 

As  if  in  song  his  soul  would  melt  away. 

December,  like  a  maiden  azure-eyed, 

Stands  on  our  hills  and  dances  in  the  vale; 
Riotous  is  she  in  joyance,  and  pale 
As  a  young  priestess.     Yet  she's  not  denied 
Beauty  nor  light.     June's  self  is  not  more  fair 
Than   our  sweet,   sun-crowned   davs   of  Winter   are. 


SEMI-TROPIC  DECEMBER. 

O  tropic 'skies!  what  hand  hath  poured  your  gold, 
And  laid  soft,  amber  touches  on  the  hills, 

With  daisy-stars  'mid  the  green  grasses  told, 
And  loosed  the  voices  of  the  singing  rills? 

Were  ever  skies  more  fair  than  those  that  bend 
Sun-flooded   o'er   the  Old   Year's   sleeping  breast? 

Did  ever  flowers  more  tenderly  lend 

The  fragrance  from  their  dewy  petals  pressed 

To  the  soft  wind,  which,  incense-laden,  sweeps 
Where  blossom-crowned   December,   dying,  sleeps? 


A  DECEMBER  IDYLL. 

O  days  divinely  fair!  we  would  not  dream 
The  year  was  drawing  swiftly  to  its  close, 

So  warm  the  golden  sunbeams  that  do  gleam 
On  blooming  lily  and  on  opening  rose. 

We  walk  the  floorways  of  our  vales  and  hills, 
With  tender  grasses  underneath  our  feet, 

List  to  the  silvery  tunes  of  running  rills, 

Hear  bird-song  round  us,  wondrous  clear  and  sweet. 

The  brown  bees  float  within  the  sunny  air, 
The  many  flies  show  wings  of  prism'd  light, 

Bird  answers  bird  from  treetop  everywhere, 

And  through  Earth's  sunny  paths  they  take  their  flight. 

I  love  December,  with  his  patient  hours, 
And  garnered  gold  and  gleaming  lights  which  pass 

Sure-footed  as  the  Sun  amid  the  flowers, 
And  o'er  the  billows  of  the  growing  grass. 

His  morns  are  glorious  with  the  growing  light; 

His  noons  are  languid  as  with  summer  calms, 
The  light-winged  breezes  linger  in  the  flight, 

While  Perfume  holds  them  in  her  fragrant  arms. 

Like  some  great  god  whose  battles  all  are  o'er, 
With  Victor's  crown  upon  his  forehead  prest; 

While  the  great  seas  their  grand  Te  Deum  pour, 
He  passes  proudly  to  his  quiet  rest. 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


OUR  DECEMBER  DAYS.     (1890.) 

These  winter  days  are  infinitely  fair, 
As   if  they  held  the   soul   of  the   whole  year's 
Sunshine.     How   bend    these   bright    December    skies 
Above  the  world,  filled  full  of  pulsing  light ! 
Winged  breezes  sweep  them  softly,  as  if  they 
Loved  to  loiter  dreaming  in  their  deeps,  kissed 
By   the   circling    Sun,    and   breathing    fragrance 
Which  the  sweet  Earth  pours   from  all  her  flowering 
Altars.     How  laugh  the  tender,  grassy  blades, 
As  springing   from   the  earth  they  feel   the  thrill 
Of  blessed   resurrection !     Down   through  the 
Soil  these  messengers  of  life,  the  winter 
Raindrops,    fall,   their   silver   tides   stretched    out    to 
Find  the  roots  of  sleeping  grasses  and  of 
Waiting  hush,  that  all  the  summer  long  have 
Dreamed.  That    mystery    of    contact !  That    strange, 
Growth-renewing   power!  Beneath  the   ground   the 
Roots  stir,  the  sap  flows  upward,  circling  the 
Plant  as  does  the  blood  circle  through  human 
Veins,  and  the  mystery  of  fresh  new  life  begins. 

Ah,  Nature !     how  little  of  thy 
Grand  pages  can  we  read,  and  how  dim 
The  twilight  of  our  knowledge  is!  These  yearly 
Miracles  are  wrought  before  our  eyes,  and 
Yet  we  see  not  how  they  are  accomplished. 
The  quickening  process  hidden  lies.     We 
Say  things  grow.     But  what  is  growth?     It  is  the 
Answer  to  God's  thought  that  things  shall  be  and 
Thrive.     He  speaks  and  it  is  done.     Earth,  Air  and 
Water  but  his  servants  are.     The  Sun,  the 
Shadow  of  his  smile. 

O  semi-tropic 

Days !  in  which  the  year  so  brightly  passes 
To  its  close;  when  stars  drop  dew,  and  Night  dreams 
Balmily,  and  flowers  shed  their  fragrance 
As  the  Sun  its  light;  when  winds  are  hushed  and 
Star-worlds  sleep  in  the  serenest  depths  of 
Blue,  and  when  bird-song  like  a  river  flows 
Across  the  breast  of  Morn,  and  the  fair  Earth 
Decks  herself  in  robes  of  green,  and  puts  her 
Flowery  sandals  on,  girdling  herself 
With  silvery  streams,  while  golden  oranges, 
Like  shining  spheres,  swing  'mid  the  green-houghed  trees, 
How  near  ye  are  unto  the  Eden  of 
Our  soul's  most  pleasant   dreams ! 

THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

O  wondrous  days  of  blossoming  and  light ! 

O  golden  days  in  which  Time  ne'er  grows  old ! 

November,  flower-crowned,  waits  the  Old  year's  flight, 
Smiling  like  youth,  though  many  months  have  told 

All  of  their  heads  of  days,  each  one  as  fail- 
As  Summer's  brightest,  as  June's  purest  pearl — 

Days  when  the  great  deeps  of  fathomless  air 
Hold  bluest  skies,  and   golden  sunbeams  hurl 

Their  shining  lances  toward  the  earth  and  sea, 
Dripping  with  golden  warmth,  while  everywhere 

Lo!  the  soft  breezes  laugh  in  ecstacy, 

Slow-floating  o'er  the  widespread  meadows  fair. 


Eternal  Summer  dreams  upon  thy  breast, 

O    golden    land    of   blossom-haunted    days 
And  star-gemmed,  moonlit  nights,  where  rest 

Ts  slumber-crowned  and  dreamless  till  the  rays 
Of  the  oncoming  sun  light  all  the  hills  of  dawn, 

When  out  of  Night  and  fragrance,  and  the  vast 
Of  dreaming  Silence  the  perfect  day  is  born, 

Linked  by  its  sweetness  to  the  summer  past. 

Then  comes   December,   sandaled   with  his  flowers, 

With  tinkling  streams  that  sing  along  his  way, 
Past  meadows  green  and  the  bird-haunted  bowers 

That  throb  with  melody  as  if  'twere  May. 
Old  Year,  Earth  loves  thee,  and  she  holds  thee  fast, 

As  ye  were  still  a  babe  upon  her  breast; 
Smile  still,   Old   Year,  and  when  December's  past 

The  tender  Earth  will  lay  you  to  your  rest. 

AS  THE  OLD  YEAR  DIES.     (1898.) 

The  earth  is  bright  today  as  when  young  June, 

With  eyes  of  heavenly  blue  and  rosebud 

Lips,  smiled  on  the  breast  of  Summer  at  the 

Melody  of  tinkling  streams,  and  the  rich 

Beauty  of  the  opening  rose,  and  breathed  the 

Lily's  perfume,  inhaled  the  fragrant  breath 

Of  dew-wet  violets  and  all  the  world 

Of  bloom.     Autumn  puts  on  within  our  clime 

No    diadem    of    gold    or    crimson   leaf, 

And  wears  upon  her  fingers  no  frost-wrought 

Diamonds,  or  shining  pearls,  save  those  of 

Sparkling  dew  which  gleam  in  the  warm  sunlight 

Like  the  rich  fire-opals  of  the  golden 

Orient   lands,   proud   in  their  opulent 

Splendor.     What  wonder  that  here  of  old  lived 

The   Sun-Worshiper;  that   on   our   hills    gleamed 

His  bright  altar  fires,  for  the  Sun  is  King 

Here,  and  sceptered  like  a  god,  and  walks  the 

Skies  unhindered  seldom  by  a  cloud,  and 

Drops  his  javelins  of  light  along  his 

Way,  smiting  the  hosts  of  Winter  till  they 

Flee   to    the    far   heights,    routed    and   vanquished. 

Those  free  brown  children  of  the  ancient  days 

He  wanned  and  fed,  while  cradled  on  the  lap 

Of  Earth  they  lifted  eyes  to  him  which  held 

The   stars   of   midnight    and   the   light   of   love. 

They  raised  their  hearts  to  him  like  cups  of  wine 

That  he  might  drink  their  fullness  and  be  glad; 

They   smiled  in   answer  to  his  smile,   and  said, 

He  loveth  us  and  we  will  worship  him. 

And    the   leaves'    rustle   seemed   unto   their   hearts 

His   whisper   to  them  of  his  love  and  care. 

The  gracious  air,  filled  with  the  insect's  hum, 

And    happy    buzz    of    rainbow-winged    flies; 

The  music  of  the  waters  low  and  sweet 

Were    Nature's   hymns    poured    to   his    gracious    ear. 

He  nurtured  harvests  for  them,  fruits  and  herbs, 

And  growing  roots  that  filled  the  fruitful  soil. 

He  fed  the  honey-bee  with  nectared  bloom, 

And  kissed  the  jeweled  butterfly  as  on 

It  flew  along  the  unseen  paths  of  air. 


42 


The  V anything  Year. 


The  grassy  sabers  shimmered  with  his  beams, 
And  forest  leaves  seemed  all  a-smile  with  light. 
Fair  was  the  world,  and  glad,  brooded  by   Peace. 
No  Mission  bells  had  yet  waked  echoes  in 
The  land;  no  Cross  proclaimed  the  love  of   Him 
Who  died  that  men  might  live;  and  so  these  brown 
Children  of  the  Sun  dreamed  on  the  breast  of 
The  fond  mother,  Earth,  and  talked  of  happy 
Hunting-grounds  beyond  the  sun  and  stars,  and 
Deemed  some  morn  the  gateways  of  the  East  their 
Sun-God   would    unbar   and   they   would   pass,   winged 
With  his  own  light,  to  other  life  than  this. 


THE  VANISHING  YEAR. 

O  leaves!  O  dancing,  emerald  leaves, 
Coquetting  as  the  breezes  blow; 
What  spirit   is  it   stirs  you   so, 

And  such  light  spell  of  gladness  weaves? 

Is  there  within  the  golden  air 

Some  soul  of  joyance  all  divine, 
Some  whisper  in  the  warm  sunshine, 

Some  voice  of  Summer  everywhere? 

December's  sun  is  in  the  skies, 

December's  smile  is  bright   and  warm, 
With  scarce  a  frown  of  cloud  or  storm, 

While   many    blossoms    glad   our   eyes. 

O  Summer  lingers  all  the  year, 

And  dreams  as  on  the  lap  of  June; 
Naught  in  our  world  is  out  of  tune, 

Even  the  glad-winged  birds  are  here. 

The  early  twilight  softly  drops, 

And  Night   falls  golden  with  her  stars, 
But    calmly    lifts    her    shad'wy    bars, 

When  Day  peeps  o'er  the  mountain  tops. 

And  then  the  valleys  smile  anew, 

And  then  the  hills  lift  happy  hands, 

As  each  one  beckoning,  waiting,   stands, 

While  flies  the  Old  Year   from  the  New. 

The  grass  blades  rustle  on  the  hills, 

The  flowers  laugh  low,  the  sunbeams  kiss 
The  feet  of  him — he  docs  not  miss 

One  love-note  of  the  singing  rills. 

He  dieth  like  a  king,  and  he 

Does  shudder  not  nor  shrink  away, 
Palsied  and   old,  but,  glad  as   May, 

Passes  as  strong  and  smilingly. 

The   birds   sing   in   the  list'ning   wood, 

The  world  drops  fragrance  on  his  bier, 
The  New  Year  wakes,  and,  lo!  is  here, 

In   golden   beauty  where  he  stood. 


THE  YEAR'S  LAST  DAYS.     (1890.) 

The  sweet  air  is  full  of  golden  sunshine. 
In   which   birds  spread  their  wings  like  tiny  sails, 
And  the  bee  loses  itself  as,  buzzing 
In  happy  gladness,  it  does  drift  on  tides 
Of  light,  warmed  to  his  heart.     The  gay  pennons 
Of  the  butterfly  are  spread,  fluttering 
So  soft,  a  winter  blossom  of  content 
It  seems,  or  winged  smile  upon  the  Old  Year's 
Breast.     Sky  leans  to  Earth  with  eye  divinely 
Blue  'neath  lid  of  sunshine,  and  sweet,  warm  mouth 
Fragrant  with  the  breath  of  gentle  south  winds, 
And  the  Earth  looks  up  with  her  liquid  glance 
Of  running  streams,  with  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  breath  of  odorous  lilies  on  her 
Lips.     O'er  hill  and  valley  trail  her  emerald 
Robes,  jeweled  with  blossoms,  and  her  silver 
i^augh  is  heard   in   rippling  brooks.     Time  loves  the 
Old  Year  as  he  finds  it  here,  for  'tis  a 
Coy  maiden  who  will  not  grow  old,  but  who, 
With  her  glad  twelve  months  ended,  all  blossom- 
Crowned,  with  cheeks  like  smiling  June's,  wearing  ;i 
Girdle  of  unnumbered  flowers,  with  silver 
Anklets  of  the  running  streams,  making  such 
Music  for  her  dancing  feet,  she  slips  with 
Happy  laughter  from  his  sight  into  the 
Palace  of  the  Past,  which  stands  upon  the 
Shores  of  Yesterdays,  a  whole  year's  sunshine 
Round  her  poured,  a  year  of  bloom  and  harvest. 


THE  OLD  YEAR  IN  CALIFORNIA.     (1887.) 

And  is  it  true  that  here  the  years  grow  old — 
Die  to  give  place  unto  still  younger  ones, 
Pregnant  with  progress?     Can  years  die 
While  strong-limbed  and  sturdy,  thrilling  with  life. 
Smooth-browed    and    sunny-eyed,    and    palpitating 
Yet  with  beauty?     While  warm  the  Earth  slumbers, 
And  on  her  breast  is  bud  and  blossom  sweet, 
And  sprouting  harvests?     While  fruits  ripen,  and 
The  Sun's  lidless  eye  beams  goldenly,  and 
Stars  lean  above  the  perfumed  Night,  and  soft 
Dews  drop   from  the  world-lit  space  upon  the 
Flower-lipped     Earth?     Fairer    than    the    young    Year's 

June 

Is  the  aged  Year,  with  not  a  furrow  on 
His  ruddy  cheek,  nor  touch  of  Time  upon 
His  forehead.     His  lips  drop  fatness,  and  his  voice 
Is  melodious  with  running  waters 

And  the  symphony  of  birds.     The  wild 

Bee's  hum  breathes  murmuring  undertone  through 

All  his  whispers.     He  has  his  messengers 

Of  humming-birds  and  gay-winged  butterflies, 

That  linger  round  him  as  in  the  May-time 

Of  his  glorious  youth.     Like  luster  of 

The  sunshine  is  his  hair,  its  locks  as  thick 

As  leaves  of  Vallambrosa's  forests,  and 

His  limbs  as  free  from  tremulousness  as 


43 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


. 


Are  our  bare  and  rock-ribbed  mountains,  high 
Uplift,  like  sky-crowned  Titans  to  the  upper  air. 
No,  the  Year  dies  not,  but  with  swift  feet,  strong 
Limbs  and  unfailing  vigor,  wrapping  his 
Harvest   robes   about  him,  all  blossom-bordered, 
He  steps  out  among  the  yesterdays  of  Time, 
The  deathless  monarch  of  the  vanished  Past. 

THE  OLD  YEAR.     (1878.) 

The  Year  draws  near  its  close,  so  azure-eyed  and  fair, 

One  wonders  if  in  truth  the  Year  is  old- 
Such  golden,  sun-wove  garments  it  doth  wear, 

Such  jeweled  brightness  it  cannot  be  told. 
Hath  it  not  somewhere  caught  upon  its  wing 

Immortal  beauty  such  as  cannot  die? 

Holds  not   the   Autumn   all  the  warmth   of  Spring; 

Its  scent  of  flowers?     The  bright -winged  butterfly 
Floats  now  upon  the  shining  waves  of  air, 

As  happy  as  in  May  it  sips  the  dew, 
And  yellow-belled  abutilons  there  are 

Where  swings  the  humming-bird,  and  fresh  and  new 
Bright   roses  ope  their  petals  to  the  Sun, 

Which  kisses  them  until  in  crimson  dyes, 
Like  maidens  blushing,  stand  they  every  one; 

And  even  the  blue,  cloudless,  sun-swept  skies 
Hold  floods  of  song;  and  only  such  light  breeze 

As  fans  with  tender  touch  the  Spring's  young  flowers 
Lingers  amid  the  emerald  of  the  trees; 

Only  comes  lesser  space  'twixt  the  dawn   and   sunset 

hours, 

As  if  the  Year  was  weary  and  would  sleep, 
Cradled  within  the  sunshine's  golden  deep. 


GOOD  NIGHT,  OLD  YEAR.     (1890.) 

The  Summer's  feet  are  on  December's  hills, 

Her  breath  is  in  our  thousand  blooming  flowers; 

Her  merry  laughter  in  the  silver  rills 
Is  heard  through  all  the  sweet,   enchanted  hours. 

Her  face  is  fair  as  in  the  lotus  lands, 

Where  sweet  Romance  lies  dreaming  in  her  arms; 
Some  spell  is  on  her,  and  she  halting  stands 

And  crowns  the  Old  Year  with  her  rarest  charms. 

June  never  held  such  skies  of  shining  blue, 

Nor  ever  birds  more  glorious  songs  did  sing; 

Good  night,  Old  Year!  pass  on,  and  let  the  New 
Open  its  eyes  upon  the  lap  of  Spring. 

THE  OLD  YEAR  ASLEEP.     (1891.) 

O  snow-crowned  mounts !  ye  miracles  of  light, 
As  Moses  stood  before  the  burning  bush 
In  ages  gone,  near  holy  Horeb's  mount, 
Reverent  with  awe  and  wonder  stood  I 
But   yesterday  where   grand   Sierra   heights 
Were  lifted  to  the  skies,  while  thick  fogs  trailed 
White  garments  round  their  sides,  girdled  with  twin 
Rainbows.     Gray  San  Antonio,  Time's 


Elder  brother,  hoary  as  centuries, 

Lifted  his  scarred  crest  above  the  clouds,  and 

Pillowed  it  where  the  stars  were  hid,  curtained 

By  light  within  the  deeps  of  air.     In  dim 

Shadow  the  valley  lay  beneath  a 

Canopy  of  darkened  mist,  but  the  light 

Of  heaven  was  on  the  mountain  top.     The 

Sunshine  poured  its  gold  upon  its  snowy 

Mantle;  warm,  rosy  sunset  lights,  and  gleams 

Of  amber,  royal  purple  tints,  glowing 

Crimson  flushes,  illuminated  its  far  slopes, 

While  the  sky  seemed  bending  down  to  catch  its 

Smile.     A  light  cloud— or  was  it  the  backward 

Sweep  of  some  archangel's  wing?— fluttered  a 

Moment  o'er  its  summit  and  was  gone; 

While,  like  a  banner  from  heaven's  ramparts 

Trailing,  the  sunset  clouds  were  luminous 

With  opalescent  lights.    The  Old  Year  lay  asleep 

Within  the  valley's  calm,  where  golden  swung 

The  orange  spheres,  and  vines  were  ready  to 

Put  forth  their  leaves.     The  light  winds  sang  low 

A  lullaby  to  dreaming  grasses,  while 

Fluttered  the  butterfly,  its  wings  astir, 

Like  gleams  of  sunshine  in  the  lambent  light; 

The  falling  raindrops  whispered  of  life  and 

Blessed  resurrection.     How  soft  the 

Old  Year  breathed,  his  dying  eyes  still  clear;  his 

Face  unfurrowed;  his  heart  still  warm,  pulsing 

With  beauty.     Like  the  old  gray  Pyramids 

By  the  lotus-guarded  Nile,  the  snow-clad 

Mountains  stood,  white  as  if  Death  had  touched  them. 

Within  this  tropic  land  all  other  things 

Throbbed  warm  with  color  and  with  life's   fragrance. 

Were  these  Sierra  heights,  with  heads  touching  the 

Unseen   stars,  to  be  the  Old   Year's   sepulcher; 

Their  snows  his  shroud,  their  choired  wings  the  singers 

Of  his  requiem  as  he  passed  from  his 

Twelve  months'  reign  of  Summer?     Nay,  not  these.     For 

Him  all  things  that  Summer  loves  around 

His  bier  shall  crowd;  birds  singing  softly  as 

In  the  sweet  June  hours.     The  perfumed  flowers 

Are  like  the  voice  of  immortality, 

And  cradled  with  them  shall  the  Old  Year  sleep. 


THANKSGIVING   TIME   IN    CALIFORNIA.     (1877.) 

Here   Nature  tunes  her  gladdest  notes, 

The  breeze  its  softest  whisper  flings, 

The  sunshine  gleams  in  golden  rings, 

And  paints  in  many-colored  hue 

The  budding  flowers.     The  drops  of  dew, 

Like  rounded,  perfect  spheres  aglow, 

The  glories  of  the  rainbow  show, 

And  through  the  clear,  warm  air  there  floats 

The  first  sound  of  the  robin's  notes, 

And  lo!    with  many-colored  wings, 

Scarce  touched  with  motion,  floating  by, 

As  half  asleep  upon  the  air, 

The  gold  and  scarlet  butterfly. 


This  Thanksgiving  Dai/. 


And    from   each    fragrant,    flowery   cup 
The  humming-bird   drinks   nectar  up. 
And  all  along  the  roadway's  side 
Peer  grasses  in  their  emerald  dress. 
Xodding  their  green  blades  in  the  sun, 
As   if  a  new  Thanksgiving  psalm 
Was  trembling  on  each  slender  tongue. 
The  sea  lies  prone  beneath  the  sky, 
Its  billows  dance  along  the  shore, 
The  mountains  hear  its  lullaby, 
The   rocks  its  wrathful,  sullen   roar. 

The  air  seems  listening,  and  the  Sun 
Coquetting  with  the  leafy  trees, 
That  whisper  sideways  to  the  breeze, 
Shines  all  day  long,  nor  veils  his  face, 
Save   with    the    rosy    clouds    of    Even, 
Bright  hinges  of  the  sunset  gate 
The  golden  bar  'twixt  earth  and  heav'n. 

THIS  THANKSGIVING^  DAY. 

The  days  are  bright  with  beauty,  and  the  sky 

Bends   fair  above  us;  scarce  a  passing  cloud 

Touches  the  blue,  so  infinite  and  deep; 

And   through  the  sunny   air   do  bird-wings   sweep 

As  if  'twere  summer,  while  the  butterfly 

Flutters  upon  the  opening  rose's  cheek; 

The  breezes  softly  blow,  no  loud  harsh  winds 

With  icy  breath    the  fragrant  silence  stir, 

And  list'ning  we  may  hear  the  soft  low  whirr 

Of  flies'  and  bees'  innumerable  wings. 

Bright  flash  the  crystal  waters  sweeping  down 

From  mountain  springs  unto  the  sunny  sea, 

Through  valleys  where  the  reapened  harvests  be. 

Adown  the  garden  walk  so  lazily 

The   caterpillars   crawl;  the   crickets   sing 

Their  hymns  at  dusk,  and  lo!    sometimes  we  hear 

A  lone  cicada  singing  harsh  yet  clear. 

Summer  seems  lingering  to  the  full  year's  close, 

We  see  her  smiling  in  the  opening  rose, 

We  see  her  emerald  sandals  in  the  grass, 

And  catch  her  whisper  as  the  south  winds  pass; 

Her  dimpled  cheek  is  in  the  lily's  bloom ; 

Her  eye  of  blue  shines  through  November's  noon; 

Upon  her  breast  the  violet  does  glow, 

Her  laughter  ripples  with  the  streamlet's  flow; 

Her  lang'rous  breath  is  in  our  balmy  air, 

And   her   warm   pulse   is   throbbing   everywhere. 

November  loves  her— with  Thanksgiving  pours 

Into  her  lap  the  full  year's  harvest  stores. 

OUR  SEMI-TROPIC  WINTER.     (1892.) 
Winter  puts  on  a  robe  of  tender  green, 
And  decks  his  head  with  many  blossoms  fair, 
His  breath  with  fragrance  fills  the  balmy  air, 
And  sunbeams  wrap  him  in  their  golden  sheen. 

Birds  sing  for  him,  and  bright-winged  butterflies 
Float  on  so  idly  through  the  sunlight's  gold, 
While  bees  to  them  their  happy  psalms  unfold. 
Beneath  the  dome  of  ever-shining  skies. 


Sweet  sings  the  nightingale  when  twilight  drops, 
Calling  afar  through  spaces  far  and  dim, 
And  gay  the  merry  cricket's  evening  hymn; 
Clear  shine  the  stars  above  the  mountain  tops.* 

And  soft  the  whisper  'mid  the  orange  groves, 
Where  winds  breathe  lightly  as  a  child  asleep, 
And  young  love  comes  its  happy  tryst  to  keep 
Beneath  the  radiance  which  the  starlight  throws. 

Just  stir  the  leaves  like  many  beckoning  hands, 
And  Fragrance  steals  the  long-aisled  orchards  through, 
And   blossoms  tremble,  kissed   by  silver   dew; 
The  opening  lily  like  a  priestess  stands. 

Low-voiced  and  sweet  the  many  rivers  run; 
Pictures  of  grace,  the  bending  willows  lean 
To  view  their  faces  in  the  flowing  stream; 
The  mountains  lift  their  faces  to  the  sun. 

The  Year  grows  never  old  beneath  our  skies; 
His  hair  is  golden  as  the  sunny  dawn, 
His  face  is  rosy  as  the  dewy  morn, 
When  sleeping  in  December's  lap  he  lies. 

Upon  some  unseen  path  he  slips  away, 
His   feet   flower-sandaled   and  his  heart  sun-filled, 
Full  of  the  wine  that  gladness  has  distilled, 
Smiling  and  fair  as  is  the  glorious  May. 

WINTER  IN  CALIFORNIA.     (1878.) 

The  clouds  rise  slowly,  then  the  eastern   blast 
Flings  open  swift  the  flood-gates  of  the  storm, 
The  earth  drinks  in  the  welcome  rain  at  last, 
And  Winter  sees  a  world  in  beauty  born. 

The  Sun  throws  open  wide  his  golden  door, 
The  bright  skies  lift,  a  dome  of  deepest  blue, 
And  all  the  earth  is  one  wide  emerald  floor 
With  flowery  patterns  woven  through  and  through. 

The  soft  winds  dally  with  the  sun-kissed  air, 
The  waves  of  gushing  bird-song  flood  the  sky, 
The  golden  orange,  'mid  its  blossoms  fair, 
Gleams  in  the  sunshine  as  the  days  go  by. 

The  lilies  swing  their  censers  to  the  breeze, 
Orchards  burst  into  whitest  drifts  of  bloom, 
And  glad  bees  hum  amid  the  flowering  trees, 
While  Winter  wears  the  Summer  guise  of  June. 

THE  WINTER  OF  SUNLAND. 

O  tropic  land!  sun-kissed, 
Crowned  with  the  amethyst 
Of  the   lush   clover's   bloom 
Through  winter's  smiling  noon; 
Drowned    are   your   hillsides 
With  the  orange  tides 
Of  your  poppies  golden; 
Fanned  by  the  swaying  palm, 
Nursed  in  enchanted  calm. 
Steeped  in   fragrance  sweet 


45 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


Of  rose  and  orange  flower. 

Life  from  each  winter  shower 

Springs  and  wakes  the  earth  from  slumber, 

Waking  blossoms  without   number. 

Violets  peep  dewy-eyed, 

And  the  nun-like  lilies  rise, 

While  in  scarlet  pride 

Stirs  the  gay  poinsettia, 

Throwing  off  the  wind's  light  fetter. 

Deeper,  vaster  grow  the  skies, 
And  the  fields  the  million  spears 
Of  a  standing  army  show; 
Fragrant-breath'd,  soft  breezes  blow, 
And  the  golden  orange  spheres 
Like  the  starry  planets  shine, 
While  the  vineyards  yield  their  wine, 
And  the  crystal  rivers  leap, 
Waking  from  their  summer  sleep, 
All   their   dry   sands  disappear; 
The  transparent  atmosphere 
Seems  to  bring  the  whole  world  near. 

Hark !  we  hear  the  robin's  song, 
And  the  mocking-bird  sings  clear 
From  the  tall  tree's  highest  bough — 
Bend  your  ear  and  listen  now. 
Golden   is   the   oriole's   breast, 
Flashing  'mid  the  green  leaves  there, 
While  he  sings  and  takes  his  rest. 

Like  a  river  in  the  skies 
Is  the  lark's  song,  as  he  flies 
Bathed  in  ripplyjg  harmonies. 

Golden-winged  the  butterfly, 
Like  a  bit  of  sunshine  gleams 
O'er  the  crystal  of  the  streams; 
And  with  low,  incessant  hum, 
Lo!  the  honey-bees  do  come — 
Floating  argosies  of  sweet — 
Robbers  of  the  honey  hid 
'Neath  each  drowsy  blossom's  lid; 
And  the  quail  calls  soft  and  low, 
As    through    quiet    paths    we    go. 

See  the  yellow  daisies  swing, 
Hear  the  breeze-swept  bluebells  ring, 
While  the  cricket's  steadfast  call 
Like  the  Angelus  does  fall, 
When   the  Night  her  curtain  drops 
O'er  the  plains  and  mountain  tops. 
And  the  merry  frogs  we  hear 
'Mid   the   reeded    shallows   near. 
Lovers* are  they  of  the  clime 
Where  each  month  is  summer-time, 
And   their  bluff  old   chorister 
Tunes   his   flute   wherever   lie 
Shaded   pools   beneath   the   sky, 
Where   the  waters   seem   to   dream 
In  the  shallows  of  a  stream. 


See   the   long   brown    furrows   turned, 

Where  the  shining  plow  doth  speed, 

Making  ready  for  the  seed 

To  be  nursed  by  Winter's  sun. 

Scarce   a   week   before  you   see 

Harbingers  of  harvestry 

In  the  million  blades  which  push 

Through   the   soil.     On   tree   and   bush 

All  the  sun's  warm  lances  lie, 

And  beneath,  in  mimicry, 

See  the  leaf-like  shadows  stir, 

Lying  on  the  water's  breast, 

Or  in  tangles  in  the  grass 

Where  the  warm  south  wind  doth  pass; 

And  we  hear  the  low,  swift  whirr 

Of  the  birds'  wings  as  they  fly 

'Twixt   the  blue  of  sea  and  sky. 

Summer  dreams  in  Winter's  arms, 
And  his  cheek  is  never  old; 
Never  turns^the  sunny  gold 
Of  his  shining  locks  to  gray; 
Never  fade  his  winning  charms — 
Stalwart,   strong   is   he   alway, 
Never  vexed  and  petulant, 
Voicing  only  sweet  content. 

Dreaming  like  a  maid  he  lies, 
'Neath  the  splendor  of  his  skies; 
On  his  lips  does  Summer  press 
Kiss  of  lingering  tenderness; 
Blooming   days    are   always  here, 
And   they  press   about   the  bier 
Of  the  Old  Year  as  he  dies, 
Breathing   softest   harmonies, 
Winged  with  summer-warmth  he  flies, 
King   of   Beauty,   to   his    rest. 

SEMI-TROPIC  WINTER.     (1893.) 

A  tall  geranium  grows  without  my  door, 
Its  scented  breath  is  sweet  as  any  rose; 
The  robins  love  it,  for  they  often  close 
Their  wings  upon  its  leafy  emerald  floor, 
Staying  their  flight,  and  then  such  songs  they  pour 

That  one  would  dream  the  air  were  filled  with  song 
Which  the  winds  breathed,  and  everything  along 
Their  pathway  caught  and  sang  it  o'er  again, 
Until  Night  came  with  its  low  voices,  when 
Sounds   fall   asleep   upon  her  starlit  breast, 
And  gentle  Silence  nurses  them  to  rest. 

OUR  GLORIOUS  WINTER.     (1901.) 

Our  Winter's  feet  with  gold  are  shod, 

And  all  his  robes  are  green, 
With  many  a  jeweled  blossom  hid 

Their  emerald    folds  between. 

The  pansies  nod  so  sweet  and  shy 

Beneath  the  palm-trees  tall, 
The  robin  and  the  butterfly 

Float   softly  over  all. 


Winter  Land. 


How  lift  the  mountains  to  the  sun 
Their  snowy  crests  of  light; 

How  joyfully  the  streamlets  run, 
While  blossoms  watch  their  flight. 

And   Summer's   breath  is   in  the  sky, 
And  Summer's  touch  we  see 

On   every   field   and  opening  flower, 
And  every  leaf-clad  tree. 

The  robins  sing  as  if  'twere  June, 

The  bees  as  gaily  hum, 
The  sky   is   not   less  bright  and   fair, 

And  seldom  storm-clouds  come. 

The  days  pass  like  a  summer  dream, 

The  softly-pulsing  air 
Is  full  of  fragrance  which  is  shed 

From   blossoms   everywhere. 

The  roses'  perfumed  sweets  we  scent, 

The  lilies   fair  unfold, 
And  the  bright  hillsides  are  ablaze 

With   the  wild  poppies'  gold. 

O  Summer's  heart  is  in  the  day, 

Cold   Winter  stands   afar 
Upon  the  mountain  heights  and  hides 

His  frowns  beneath  a  star. 

His   frozen   breath   we  do   not   know, 

His  chill  we  do  not  feel; 
The  orange   bloom   our   only   snow 

Where   Summer's    footsteps   steal — 

And  linger  'mid  a  world  of  bloom, 
And   grass-clad  hills   and   vales, 

And   make   a   June-time   of  the  year, 
Whose  brightness  never  pales. 

WINTER  LAND.     (1885.) 

Far  up  beneath  the  Arctic  skies, 

Where  Winter's  frozen  wings  are  spread, 
And  all  the  earth' lies  cold  and  dead, 

I   see  the  rude  barrabkies  rise. 

The  blue  smoke,  like  a  slender  thread, 
Above  their  sodded  roofs  is  seen; 
And  one  small  window,  thrust  between 

Their  grass-grown  sides,  lifts  up   its  head. 

In   the   short   summer-time  the   day 

Through   all   the  weeks   grows  scarcely  dim — 

Only  the   twilight's   shadowy   rim 
'Twixt  night  and  morning's  rosy   ray. 

And  all  the  dull  gray  summer  through 
Sit  thousand  seagulls  on  the  rocks, 
And  the  choochkies  come  in  countless  flocks, 

And   gaily-crowned   sea-parrots,   too. 

The   meadow-lark   sings   sweet    and   clear, 

And  makes  a  pathway  as  it  flies 

Of  happy  song  unto  the  skies— 
The  only   singing  minstrel  here. 


And  little  children,  dark  and  brown, 

With   high  cheek-bone  and  stolid   face, 
Without   a   single  winning  grace, 

Live  'neath   the   cloudy   summer's   frown. 

No  sports  have  they  to  make  them  glad, 
Xo  playgrounds,  and  no  pretty  toys, 
Xo  dogs,  nor  ponies  for  the  boys, 

Xo  dolls  for  girls  all  neatly  clad. 

No   pleasant   walks   nor   garden   flowers, 
Xo   lovely   trees   with   branches   green 
In  all  this  northern  land  are  seen — 

'Tis  all  unlike  this  land  of  ours. 

With  ice  the  Winter  spreads  the  sea, 

The  frozen  ground  is  white  with  snow, 
And  winds   in  awful  tempests  blow, 

And   far  the  drifting  icebergs  flee. 

And  sometimes  on  some  drifting  floe — 
The  lone  Columbus  of  his  kind— 
The  polar  bear   sets  out   to  find 

More    southern    seas,    and    sailing    slow, 

He    rides    along   those    northern    shores, 
A  lonely  sailor  fierce  and  grim; 
Ah!  who  would  like  to  sail  with  him 

While  he  some   far-off  sea   explores? 

Short  are  the  winter  days,  and  dim. 
The  twilight   falls  soon  after  noon, 
The  long  dark  night  comes  on  full  soon; 

Swift  sets  the  sun  behind  the  rim 

Of  the  white  seas  so  still  and  drear, 

And  the  bright  stars  hang  in  the  sky, 
So  low  they  look,  you  almost  try 

To  reach  them,  for  they  seem  so  near. 

Oh,  who  would  give  this  life  we  know, 
Its  starry  nights,  its  golden  days, 
Its  fruits,  and  all  its  wooded  ways, 

For  that  north  world  of  storm  and  snow? 

WINTER. 
On  His  Eastern  Throne. 

lTpon  our   farther  shores,  where  thunder  the 

Atlantic's  surges,  and  mad  billows  heave 

In   icy  coldness,  Winter  stands  like 

Some  old  giant  god,  palsied  and  chilled. 

His  limbs  shaking  with  the  fierce  cold,  his  breath 

White  with  hoar-frost,  his  crown  the  glittering 

Icicle,  sharp  as  an  arrow  piercing 

The  frozen  air;  the  dead   Earth  at  his  feet, 

Shrouded   in  white,  her  streams  locked  within 

Their  icy  tombs,  lying  hushed  in  soundless  silence. 

Her  forests   stretching  gaunt,  naked 

Arms  unto  the  chilling  blasts,  ghosts  of  their 

Summer  selves,  when,  green  and  beautiful,  the 

Golden    sunbeams    dreaming   lay  within   their 

Leaf-clad  arms,  and  birds  amid 

The  many   toughs  poured   melody   upon 


The  Montli-s  and  Seasons. 


The  shining  air  till  it  was  full  of  song. 

Hushed  are  the  bird-songs  now;  gone  is  the  breath 

Of  flowers,  and  th'  soft  wind  sighing  through  the 

I,eaf-lutes  of  the  trees,   for  white  is  Winter's 

Throne,  his  shoulders  covered  with  his  snowy  mantle, 

And  for  his  saber  he  doth  hold 

The  keen   North  Wind,  piercing  with  jagged  edge 

The  very  hearts  of  men  till  they  stop  beating 

When  he  doth  find  them  poor  and  shelterless. 

Oh,  he  is  cruel,  savage,  pitiless, 

Doing  his  worst  with  Poverty  and  Want, 

And  scourging  them  by  thousands,  feeding  on 

Slaughter  and  drinking  death  like  wine. 

Winter   on   His  Semi-Tropic   Throne. 

Not   such  is   Winter  here!     A   fair  young   god 
He  stands,  upon  his  head  a  crown  of 
Sunshine,  and  around  him  wrapped  a  robe  of 
Emerald,  woven  with  flowers   fragrant 
As  the  breath  of  Araby;  and  his  fingers, 
Gemmed  with  diamonds  of  dew,  touch  the  bright 
F.arth  caressingly,  and  the  streams  leap  in 
Fresh  laughter,  and  shining  rills  ripple  in 
Music,  as  the  clouds  pour  down  the  rhythm 
Of  sweet   rains.     In  every  tree-top,  lo! 
The  happy  birds  "sing  east,  sing  west"  until 
The  world  is  song;  the  air  is  deluged  with 
The   gleam   and   gold   of  sunshine,   and   the  winds 
Are  mellow  with  the   fragrance  of  the  wine 
Of  flowers.     The  heart  of  Winter  is  but 
Bud  and  bloom,  his  breath  is   fragrant  as  the 
Lands  of  spice,  and  his  pillow  is   for  aye 
The  lush  grasses  and  the  ripening  wheat, 
And  blossoms  numberless  as  God's  own  stars; 
His  pulses  are  in  tune  with  happy  June's, 
His   face   as  young  and  beautiful  as  hers, 
As  warm  his  airs,  as  lovely  are  his  skies. 


EASTER.     (1902.) 

The  earth  lay  still  within  the  arms  of  Dawn, 

The  air  was  pulseless;  not   a  single  leaf 

vStirred  on  its  parent  bough;  all  sound  was  hushed 

Save  the  soft  flow  of  Kedron's  silver  stream 

That  gurgled  to  the  hills  a  rippling  psalm 

Of  joy.     The  blue  was  starlit  still,  and  the 

Pale  silver  light  upon  the  olive  trees 

Seemed  like  a  ghost  of  sunlight.     The  lilies 

Stood  like  white-faced  nuns  along  the  way.     The 

Glorious  mounts  about  Jerusalem 

Lifted  their* silent  faces  to  the  sky; 

The  wide-branching  palms  were  motionless,  and 

The  flowers  of  the  field,  baptized  with  dew, 

Held  fragrant  censers,  filled  with  odors  sweet, 

That  seemed  the  breath  of  coming  joy.     The  vast 

Dome  of  the  temple  on  Moriah's  height 

Lay  still  within  the  shadows,  save  for  a 

Faint  gleam   from  the  waking  Dawn  that   touched  it, 


As  'twere  the  promise  of  Day's  coming  glory. 

No  whisper  stirred  the  olive  trees  along 

The  way.    The  shadows  hid  amid  the  thorn-trees' 

Boughs,  and  the  faint  stars  grew  fainter  still  as 

Night  drew  back  and  the  far  East  did  slowly 

Brighten  as  if  angels  trod  its  portals. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  Earth  were  hushed  and  lay 

Breathless  in  expectancy,  as  to  the 

Holy  sepulcher,  where  lay  the  blessed 

Christ,  the  weeping  Marys  came,  bearing  sweet 

Spices  and  precious  ointment  for  the  Lord's 

Anointing.     It   was   so  still  within   the 

Garden  that  sound  seemed  dead,  and  all  the  world 

A-swoon  with  woe.     Then  Mary  Magdalene, 

Her  eyes  dim  with  heart-breaking  anguish,  and 

Her   fair  cheeks   paled   to  ashen  whiteness,  spoke 

Tremulously:     "Oh,  who  shall  roll  for  us 

The  stone  away,  so  we  may  enter  where 

Our  Lord  is  laid?"     They  neared  the  tomb,  and  the 

Dawn  brightened  into  day,  and  a  lance  of 

Holy  light  shot  downward  through  the  olive 

Trees,  as  if  the  world  had  waked  once  more  to 

Gladness.     But  as  they  looked,  their  eager  eyes 

M  ith  wonder  filled,  for  the  great  stone  at  the 

Tomb's   door   was   rolled   away,   and,  hastening 

In,  Mary  knelt  where  the  body  of  her 

Lord  had  lain,  her  heart  breaking  in  great  sobs 

That  rent  the  anguished  air.     But  lifting  her 

Eyes  at  length,  what  does  she  see?     An  angel 

Form,  all  shining  as  the  light,  is  there,  and 

A  glory  not  of  the  earth  brightens  the 

Sepulcher,  and  a  voice  sweeter  than  aught 

Of  time,  more  melodious  than  all  earth's 

Melody,    speaks    to   her:      "Fear    not,    I    know 

Ye  seek  the  Crucified.     He  is  not  here; 

The  Christ  ye  love  hath  risen,  and  He  hath 

Conquered  Death  for  aye." 

O  glorious  Easter  morn! 

O  day  of  days  for  man ! 

Hope  in  our  hearts  is  newly  born, 

Through  Christ  the  sting  of  Death's  withdrawn, 

Through  Christ  who  risen  lives. 


EASTER.     (1898.) 

The  day  is  fair  and  sweet,  the  sky  is  bright, 
And  the  still  winds  run  softly  through  the  air, 

And  with  swift  wings  the  many  birds  take  flight, 
And  glory  broods  in  silence  everywhere. 

Afar  the  mountains  rise  so  still  and  calm, 
The  meadows  lie  asleep  beneath  the  Sun, 

And  Nature  lifts  a  rose-encircled  arm 

While  beckoning  Beauty  down  her  paths  to  come. 

O  mountain  heights !  I  look  to  you  and  dream 
Of  other  mounts  uplifted  to  the  sky, 

Of  a  fair  land  where  holy  memories  teem, 
And  the  dead  centuries  unforgotten  lie. 


48 


Easter  Morning. 


The  land  of  Calvary  and  Nazareth, 

Of  Easter  glory  and  its  open  tomb, 
Where   He — the   risen   Christ— the  bonds   of  death 

Burst  as  the  flow'r  bursts   from  the  bud   to  bloom. 

The  Lord  is  risen !     Earth  hears  the  blessed  word, 
Life  blossoms  into  fuller  joy  and  grace, 

Divinest  hope  within  the  soul  is  stirred, 
And  a  new  future  opens  for  the  race. 

EASTER.     (1886.) 

Night's  face  lay  dark,  save  for  its  gems, 

Its  royal  diadem  of  stars, 

And  one  soft  line  of  silver  bars 
Which  stretched  above  its  midnight  hem. 

Earth  slept;  no  light  breeze  stirred  her  breast, 

Or  touched  the  silence  of  the  leaves 

That  breathless  hung  upon  the  trees, 
From  vale  to  highest   mountain  crest. 

But  as  the  holy  morn  drew  nigh, 

How  waxed  the  heavens  asunder   far, 

As  floating  down  from  star  to  star, 
Through  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sky, 

Drew  near  the  holy  Seraphim, 

Earth   stirred   with   the  strong  earthquake's   throe 
As  though  its  inmost  heart  would  show, 

Xor   keep   its   deepest   thought    from    Him 

Who   now  was   waking  in  her  breast— 
The  glorious  Christ.     The  angels  drew, 
With   pinions   pulsing  through   the  blue, 

Down   to   His  holy   place   of  rest. 

Back   from   His  tomb,  with  shining  hands, 

They  rolled   the  stone;   the  Crucified, 

The   risen   Lord,   the   Glorified, 
Lifted   His   face,  and   then   the  bands 

Of  Death  triumphant  laid  aside, 
While   angels   knelt   and   worshiped   Him, 
Men  slept  until  the  dawn  shone  dim, 

But  hell  shrank  back  all  terrified. 

O  man  redeemed!     The  glorious  light 

Of  Easter  dawn   shall  not  grow  dim 

While  rings  the  song  of  Seraphim; 
Xor  shall  hope  fail  our  waiting  sight. 

Redeemed!    wide    swing    the    golden    gates— 
Beyond   the  grave — we  walk  with   Him, 
No  fears  to  make  our  pathway  dim, 

Eternal  life  our  dying  waits. 


EASTER  MORNING.     (1896.) 

Breathe  soft,  O  blossoms,  dewy-lipped! 

Wave  lightly,  grasses  lush  and  green, 
And  boughs  and  bushes,  emerald  tipped, 

Make  room  your  many  leaves  between 
For  the  sweet  bird-choirs  that  shall  sing 


To  the  glad  skies  and  shining  sun 
Their  joyous  anthems.     Ev'rything, 

E'en  to  the  waters  that  do  run 
With  crystal  feet  amid  the  sands, 

Breaks  into  gladness  as  the  dawn 
Trails  on  the  mountain  tops  its  bands. 

O  golden  light !  O  holy  Man ! 
Earth  thrills  again  as  once  of  old, 

When  Death  was  vanquished,  and  the  grave 
Bourgeoned  with  hope  as  it  was  told, 

"The  Lord  is  risen,  and  He  can  save." 


SUMMER  MUSINGS.     (1896.) 

How  run  the  winds  'twixt  earth  and  sky; 
They  brush  the  soft  white  cloudlets  by; 

They  brush  the  highest  tops  of  trees; 

And  then  they  bend  to  such  as  these — • 
The   lily   and    the   violet, 
Lowly  amid  the  grasses  set, 

As  footstools  for  the  birds  and  bees, 

Or  chords   for  Nature's  harmonies. 

The  Sun  walks  lovingly  the  blue, 

And  throws  his  glances  fondly  to 

The  winsome,  laughing  summer  Day. 
A  smiling  god  is  he,  at  play 

With  every  leaf  and  tree  and  flower, 

And  every  bright  gold-sandaled  hour, 

And  all  things  love  him  that  abound, 
Save  shadows  clinging  to  the  ground. 

A  silken  screen  above  my  head — 

A  spider's  opalescent  web; 

The  leaves  advance  on  bough  and  stem, 
Waltzing  with  sunbeams,  loving  them; 

A-dream  I  sit,  a-dream,  and  raise 

My  eyes  to  the  unclouded  ways 

Where  treads  the  Sun,  where  Light  is  born, 
And  day  by  day  comes  Night  and  Morn, 

And  Time's  swift,  unseen  footsteps  stray, 

Nor  leave  one  track  along  their  way. 

No  track  along  those  skies  of  blue; 
Forever   old,    forever   new 

They  bend  above  the  mountain  heights, 

And  drop,  like  dew,  the  days  and  nights. 
The  Earth  smiles,  still  divinely  fair, 
As  when  those  skies  uplifted  were; 

'Tis  only  Man  himself  grows  old. 

As  days  and  years  of  time  are  told. 

Grows  old !  and  yet,  O  heart  of  mine ! 

When  Time  is  dead  and  skies  divine 

Have  lost  their  stars  and  lost  their  sun, 
And  hills  have  vanished,  even-  one, 

And  all  the  cool,  sweet  mornings  lie 

Like  dead  leaves  underneath  the  sky, 
Like  some  sea-cradled  isle  shall  rise 
The  land  of  Youth  against  the  skies. 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


MIDSUMMER.     (1895.) 

Summer  lies  dreaming  on  the  mighty  hills, 

Veiled  with  soft  tints  of  opalescent  lights; 

The  valleys  are  a-swoon  in  splendor.     Frills 

Of  green  grasses  border  the  meadows  brown; 

Sunbeams  upon  the  levels,  like  a  crown, 

Lie  as  soft  as  liquid  gold.     Birds'  happy  nights 

Stir  the  air  with  a  melodious  sound. 

Soft  breathe  the  winds  as  infancy  asleep ; 

The  leaves,  like  many  hands  upon  the  trees, 

Clap  softly,  as  if  full  of  sweet  delight 

At  the  fond  touch  of  breezes  as  they  sweep, 

Invisibly-winged  as  thought.     Tremulously 

The  flowers  lean  upon  their  nodding  stems, 

Weaving  for  Earth  its  wondrous  diadems 

Of  color.     The  soft  air,  in  stillness  moored, 

Hangs  golden  o'er  the  meadows  and  the  sea, 

Hushed  in  Noon's  heart  to  silent  ecstacy. 

Butterflies  like  winged  blossoms  to  and   fro 

Flit  through  the  air,  while  swiftly  come  and  go 

The  nectar-laden  bees  as  if  light-filled 

And  drunken  with  the  sunshine,  humming  yet 

Soft  undertones  of  melody,  all  set 

To  joyousness.     Summer  indeed  is  sweet, 

Wrapping  no  clouds  about  her  save  the  gold 

Of  sunset  and  of  sunrise,  with  which  her  feet 

Are  sandaled,  clasped  with  golden  stars; 

And  on  her  breast  she  wears  the  full  sweet  Moon, 

Swimming  in  light,  and  all  its  silver  bars 

Of  lustrous  moonbeams  trailing  on  the  Karth 

And  silvering  all  things  hidden  in  night's  noon. 

The  plains  wax  bright,  the  sea  and  valleys  smile, 
And  Xight,  like  some  fond  mother,  leans  adown 
To  light  the  trees,  like  tapers,  on  the  crown 
Of  the  far  mountains,  and  gilding  the  while 
With  silver  light  the  many  sleeping  leaves 
Lying  in  trance  of  soundless  harmonies. 
Through  day  and  night  this  semi-tropic  clime 
Yields  beauty,   coolness   through   its  summer  time 
The  tranced  air  breathes  but  softly  and  yet  sweet 
Around  the  brow  of  Summer's  golden  days, 
And   Splendor  crowns  them  with  her  lavish  hand; 
Anchored  in  light  the  valleys  seem  to  stand, 
Mountains  above  them,  oceans  at  their  feet, 
And  bird-song  paving  all  their  tree-walled  ways. 


AUTUMN. 

Oh,  this  is  sweet,  this  world  so  fair  of  ours ! 

Where  Autumn's  hands  are  full  of  Summer's  flow'rs, 

Her  skies  as  fair  with  floods  of  golden  light, 

Her  breath  fts  warm  and  fragrant  and  her  night 

As  balmy  as  midsummer's  sweetest  eves; 

The  glory  of  her  softly-swaying  leaves 

Is  not  less  full  than  June's,  for  here  Decay 

Finds  not  a  foothold,  for  Growth  holds  the  way; 

One  long,  long  summer  is  our  twelvemonth  here — 

A  harvest  home  through  all  the  golden  year. 


AUTUMN. 

O  blossoms  opening  to  the  Sun ! 

O   white-fringed    daisies    golden-eyed! 

Dream  you  that  Summer  days  are  done? 

See  you  the  opal-tinted  gleams 

Where  sunshine  through  light  haze  streams 

Across   the  low,  brown  meadows  wide? 

See  on  the  bright  lids  of  the  Day 

The  softest  hint  of  shadows  fall, 

That  full-lipped  Noon's  warm  kisses  may 

Not  wholly  lift,  while  over  all 

The  skies  bend  blue,  yet  low  the  Sun 

Creeps   o'er   the  bright,  sweet-scented   verge 

Of  the  warm  South,  and  Morning  keeps 

A  lengthened  tryst  where  star-worlds  surge 

Through  the  dim  ether's  silent  deeps. 


SUNRISE.     (1883.) 

O   sunrise   gates !   the    gold   of  heaven 

Has  dropped  between  your  bars, 
And   Light  her  shining  curtain  draws 

Between  us  and  the  stars — 
The  silver  stars  that  light  the  skies 

When  Night  lies  dreaming  sweet, 
And    Morn   behind    Tomorrow's   hills 

Had  stayed  her  coming  feet. 

THE  MORNING  HOUR. 

O  the  golden  arrows 

Which  the  dawn  is  flinging! 
O  the  glorious  music 

The  happy  birds  are  singing! 
The  busy  spider  spinning 

His  web  of  silken  sheen 
I'm  sure  does  stop  to  listen 

In  his  tent  of  forest  green. 

Ah,  the  happy  cricket, 

He  joins  the  forest  choir! 
Don't  you  catch  his  strident  note, 

Lifted  high  and  higher? 
The  bee  it  buzzes  louder, 

And  the  flies  they  sing — 
Touched  with  rainbow  colors, 

Every  gauzy  wing. 

Oh,  the  toad  is  blinking 

Where  the  sunshine  falls, 
And  the  flowers  are  climbing 

Over   garden   walls; 
And   the  grasses  beckon 

To  the  shining  dew, 
Which  makes  a  pretty  mirror 

For  them  to  peep  into. 

Like  a  million  diamonds 

Gleams  each  dewy  sphere, 
Every  one  a-shining 

Like   a   crystal   clear. 


This  Morn  of  Fog. 


Every  one  as  perfect 

As   a   starry   world, 
With  a  rainbow  beauty 

All  about  it  furled. 

Oh,  the  blessed  morning ! 

Dear  children  ope  your  eyes 
To  welcome  all  the  beauty 

That   floods  the  earth  and  skies. 
The  world  is   fair  as   Eden, 

And  looks  as  it  were  born 
Anew  with  light  and  splendor 

On  every  cloudless  morn. 

THIS  MORN  OF  FOG.     (1903.) 

The  fog  this  morning  curtained  all  the  heights, 
And  wrapped  the  sky   in  sullen   folds  of  gray, 

Dimming  the  glory  of  the  Dawn's  full  lights, 
And   shutting  out    the   golden   sunbeam's    ray. 

But  when  the  fog  was  lifted,  O  how  fair, 
How  beautiful  the  distant  shining  hills, 

The  radiant,  glorious,  sun-filled   air, 

Which  the  soft  throb  of  Nature's  pulses  thrills! 

It  was  as  if  new-born  the  whole  Earth  lay, 
A    miracle   of   beauty,    stainless,    fair, 

Within  the  clasping  arms  of  smiling  Day, 
God's   cleansing  hand   upon   its   everywhere. 

THE  DAWN. 


O  starry  skies !  adown  the  steeps  of  Xight 

Dark   slips,   and  lo!  the  bright   resplendent   Dawn! 

The  purple  shadows  fade,  and  then  the  golden  morn, 

With  all  heaven's  glory  in  its  brightness  flung 

Upon   its    forehead,   while   each    leaf-wrought    tongue 

Stirs,  trembling  softly  in  the  growing  light, 

As  if  some  holy  thought  had  touched  them.     Bright 

With  the  beauty  of  the  coming  sun 

They  rustle  softly,  and   a  sound  is  heard, 

Poured  like  rapt  chorus  through   the  briglit'ning  air, 

As  if  with  thousand  tongues  Earth  breathed  a  prayer- 

A   psalm  of  praise.     The  grasses  bend  their  heads, 

The  flowers  stir  like  unto  sweet- faced  nuns, 

And  lift  their  swaying  censers  to  the  skies. 

And  the  wide  air  takes  sweetness  from  their  breath, 

While  unto  heaven  the  broad  Earth  lifts  his  eyes — 

The  dew  upon  his  forehead,  as  he  would 

Worship  his  Maker  who  made  all  things  good. 

SUNRISE  UPON  THESE  SUNSET  SHORES. 

'Tis   morning,   and    the    glorious    Sun    above 
The  vast  purple  heights  is  lifting  up  his 
Head.     He  touches  them  with  his  lips,  and  lo ! 
They  break  into  glowing  blushes,  as  if 
Beneath  their  rocky  breasts  were  hearts  warm  with 
A    tender   passion.     O    Sky!  leaning   above 
Them,  with  eye  blue  as  the  dew-gemmed   violet 
Blossoming   at    their   base   in    the   wide,   sweet, 
Far-running  meadows,  do  you  not  love  to  lean 


Above  a  world  so   fair,  so   full  of  light,  and 

Soft-voiced   breezes,   and   ocean   whispers,  and   of 

Laughing   tides    which    pour   their   silver   brightness 

On  the  sands,  or  run  rippling  on  to  kiss 

The   dim   line   of   the   horizon's   verge,   and 

Lose    themselves    behind    its    sunny    face?      And 

Do  not  the  Islands  bring  you  joy,  lying 

Upon  the  channeled  seas,  their  ^eights  uplifted 

As   they   would   have  you   lay   your   face   upon 

Them,  and  whisper  to  them  all  the  mystery 

Of  the  air,   and  the  tender  love  of  the 

Soft   starlight   when   it   broods  above  the  earth? 

Do  you   not   love  the  trees,  the  glorious 
Swaying   trees,   with   their  arms   all  lifted 
Heavenward;  and  the  running  streams,  bright  as 
Your  own  star  rivers?     O  bending  Sky!  do 
You   not  love  the  flowers,  the  stars  of  Earth 
Which   the   sun    has   kissed   to   beauty?      I   think 
You   must   look   down   and  long  to  touch   them,   and 
To   sometimes   wear   a   rose  upon   your  breast. 

Is   not   the   red   of  this   morn's   sunrise  like 

The  rose's  red,  and   its  gold  the  pattern 

Of  the  burnished   poppy's  leaf?     The  small  white 

Cloud,  scarce  larger  than  my   palm,   curled   near 

The  zenith,   is  like  a  lily's  petal,  and 

I  think  it   must  hold   perfume. 

Lean   down,   O 

Sky!   above   these   sunset    shores — these   towering 
Mountain     heights,     these    sun-kissed     valleys,     and     the 
Gracious   sea   with    its   unwrinkled    face, 
Dimpled   with   islands.     You   are  so   fair   and 
Frownless,  the  earth  loves  you,  and  her  heart  and 
All  her  bloom   she  gives  you   for  your  smile. 


MORNING.     (1878.) 

Nature  has  swept  the  frown  from  off  her  face, 

The  world   flashed  out  with  diamonds  in  \he  morn; 

The   pearly   dewdrops — each   a   perfect   sphere — 

Gleamed   from  the  trees  and   from   the  emerald  lace 

Of  the  soft   grasses.      Day   was   born 

And  cradled  in   the  gold  of  tender  sunrise. 

And  over  it  bent  bright  and  shining  skies; 

Not   one  soft  dimpled  cloud  in   all  the  blue. 

But  only  the  great  infinite  deep  of  air 

Spread  like  a  curtain,  while  the  Earth,  fair 

In  its  springlike  beauty,  looks  as  young 

And   fresh  as   Eden. 


II.     (1894.) 

'Tis  said  the  age  of  miracles  is  past, 
'Tis  vain  to  dream  of  miracles  to  be, 
And  yet  each  day  new  miracles  we  see; 
Day's  dawn  is  one,  when   from  the  rosy  heart 
Of  the  still   East  its   lifted   curtains  part, 
And  Morn  is  born.     What  miracle  of  rose 
And  red  and  amber  and  of  purple  flows, 


51 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


Dyeing  the  heavens  with  glory,  until  we 
Let  vision  swim  in  brightness !     Immensity 
Of  sky  and  air  glow  with  new  life  as  Night 
Slips  to  the  void  of  silences,  and  white 
And  pure,  dew-washed,  sun-swathed  and  brightly  fair, 
Baptized  with  color,   Morning  waketh   there, 
Fresh  as  in  Eden,  stainless  everywhere. 


III. 


Oh,  I  do  love  to  watch  the  morning  wake 

In  the  wild  woods  among  the  mountain  heights, 

To  see  a  new  Day  spring  from  the  great  deeps  of  Night, 
Swathed  in  the  wondrous,  ever-changing  lights 

Which  the  still  fingers  of  the  pale-faced  Dawn 
Weaves  'mid  the  shadows  as   faint  breezes  stir, 

Soft  as  a  mother's  breath  amid  the  trees; 

The  birds  wake  with  them  and  you  hear  the  whirr 

Of  many  wings,  and  the  soft  twittering 

From  feathered  throats  which  pour  a  tide  of  song, 

Like  some  sky-river  of  sweet  melody, 

Flooding  the  world  when  the   full  day   is   born. 

A  few  faint  stars  hang  on  the  brow  of  Morn, 
Ere  the  Sun  rises  and  the  shadows  flee, 

And  Dawn  with  halting  steps  climbs  up  afar 
The  starry  steeps  our  eyes  so  faintly  see. 

Ah,   with   what   smile    from   out    the   bright'ning    east 
Looks  the  great  Sun  at  length  upon  the  World! 

The  waters  sing  and  all  the  forest  trees 
With  dewy  diamonds  are  so  swift  impearled. 

And  the  sweet  land  breathes  fragrance,  ev'ry  flower 
Hanging  so  fair  upon  its  swaying  stem, 

Lifts  its  bright  face  to  heaven  and  helps  to  weave 
For  the  new  Morn  a  perfumed  diadem. 

Each  blade  of  grass  looks  fresher  for  the  night, 
As  Morn  smiles  down  upon  it,  and  the  hills 

Grow  more  resplendent,  and  like  altars  stand 
Which  God  hath  lit.  The  little  rills 

Seem  to  have  learned  new  songs,  with  notes  so  sweet, 
The  echoes  run  to  catch  them  as  they   fall; 

The  plumy  reeds  stand  silent  o'er  the  stream, 
And  faint  sound  drops  like  music  over  all. 


IV.     (1898.) 

The  beautiful  Day  wakened   in  color  and  light, 
With  a  breath  from  the  sea  and  a  voice  from  the  height, 
With  the  winds  breathing  music  'mid  blossom  and  tree, 
While  the  glory  of  Morn  held  a  promise  to  be 
Richer,   fairer   at   noon,   when   the   fullness   of   sun 
Had  drenched  all  the  glad  earth  in  its  gold  and  had  won 
The  heights  of  the  zenith,  and  its  javelins  hurled 
To  smite  every  shadow  that  darkened  the  world. 


Oh,  say,  am  I  dreaming,  all  a-dream  in  this  light, 
With   this    glory   about   me  of   vale   and   of  height, 
A-dreaming  of  summer,   of   June's   breath   in   my   hair, 
Of  bird-song  and  music  and  blossoms  so   fair, 
While  the  New  Year  is  young  and  asleep  on  the  breast 
Of  old,  deep-breathing  Time?     Is  he  taking  his  rest 
In   the    arms   of   these   sunbeams,    a   bee    buzzing    near, 
And  the  sweetest  of  bird-songs  poured  into  his  ear? 

Where  is  Winter,  the  tyrant,  with  cold,  chilling  breath, 
With  saber  of  icicles   and   harvest   of  death, 
With   his    garments    of   snow,    forests    naked    and    bare, 
Winds  fierce  as  a  lion  when  it  springs   from  its  lair? 
Not  here  in  the  South,  in  this   fair  sunland  of  ours, 
Where  Summer  smiles  ever  in  garments  of  flowers, 
Where  Time  dreameth  sweetly  on  his  couches  of  bloom, 
And  the  year  at  its  close  is  as  bright  as  its  noon. 

SUNRISE  AT  SANTA  BARBARA.  (1879.) 

The  dawn   broke   softly   in  the   radiant  east, 

And  all  its  gates  glowed  golden  in  the  sun; 
The  mountains    gleamed,   a   pile   of  amethyst; 

From  north  to  south,   from  east  to  west,  as  one 
Great  shining  sapphire  hung  in  the  sky, 

And  not  a  cloud  within  its  blue  was  set, 
Only  along  its  outer  edge  did  lie 

In  rich  mosaic,  gold  and  violet, 
In  one  quick  flash  along  the  mountains  rolled, 

The  sunrise  glory;  deep  within  the  blue 
The  stars  were  buried  by  its  floods  of  gold, 
And   lo!   the   miracle   of  Day   was   wrought   anew. 


NOON.     (1897.) 

The  very  air  grows  brighter  and  the  sun 
More  golden  in  its  light;  its  pulses  beat 
With  soft,  warm  breezes,   fragrance-laden,   sweet, 

As  if  a  soul  were  in  them  every  one. 

Ah!  do  I  dream,  or  do  I  just  awake — 
Awake  to  see  how   fair  the  world  can  be; 
How  wonderfully  sweet  its  melody, 

And  what  a  shining  brightness  it   doth  take? 

I  love  the  world  and  life  and  all  it  holds, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  smile  of  sun  and  sky, 
The   grand,   tall   trees,   and   all   the  witchery 

The  vast  warm  noon  in  its  full  heart  enfolds. 

But  most  of  all  I  love  to  love  and  be 
Beloved  of  Love,  in  his  great  heart  to  lie 
Drinking  his  soul  while  glad  my  days  pass  by, 

And  less  of  self  and  more  of  love  I  see. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  DAY.     (1896.) 

A  lovely  flower  looks  :nto  my  face, 

A  fragrant  flower  with  purple-lidded  eyes 

That   smile   with   gladness   'neath   the  sunny   skies; 

It  moves  so  airily  as  light  winds  chase 


52 


This  Summer  Dai/. 


Each  other  gleefully  along  the  way, 

Sun-filled    and    fragrant    through    the    viewless    air, 
Kissing  the   dewy  blossoms   everywhere 

That  smile  so  brightly  on  the  breast  of  day. 

The  sun  drops  golden  treasures  on  my  floor 
As  it  peeps  through  the  leafy  clusters  hung 
On   climbing   vines,   and   nestles   there   among 

Their  branching  arms,  while  they  tell  o'er  and  o'er 

Their  whispered  gladness.     All  the  day  doth  seem 
To  be  alive  with  joy.     And  now  I  see — 
As  if  born  of  the  sunlight  it  might  be — 

A   humming-bird   the  many  leaves  between. 

How   dance   the   shadows   'mid   the   sunlight's   gold! 
I  almost  dream  that  they  a  heart  do  hold, 
That   sunlight's  making  love  to,  with  a  bold 

Sweet  speech  that  words  have  never  told. 

THIS  SUMMER  DAY.     (1896.) 

The  day  is   fair,  the  breezes  blow; 

They  wander  with  their  dancing  feet 
Where  blossoms  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  their  love  songs  repeat. 

The  sky  is  blue  above  my  head, 

Not  any  cloud  in  all  its  deep- 
Its  vast,  blue-curtained  deep,  that's  spread 
Above  the  Earth's  wide  sweep. 

The   flashing   sunbeams,   lo!   they  drop 

Their   slender  javelins   of  light 
On  level   plain  and  mountain  top, 

And   farthest  craggy  height. 

They  drop  their  gold  amid  the  grass, 

Amid  the  many-bannered   trees, 
And  all  the  robins  as  they  pass 

Drop   liquid   melodies. 

Poised  on  the  sunlight's  golden  sea, 
Like  some  stray  soul  adrift,  afar, 

As  it  some  wanderer  might  be 
From    distant   sun   or   star. 

The  butterfly  with  fluttering  wing 

Sails  onward  in  the  light, 
And  flies  and  bees  are  marshaling 

Themselves    for   happy    flight. 

The  glad,  sweet  day  is  all  alive, 

Is  all  a-thrill  with  bliss; 
Be  glad,  my  soul,  be  glad   and   strive 

To  be  at  one  with  this! 

THOSE  GOLDEN  DAYS.     (1900.) 

O  deep  within  my  soul  are  hidden  ways 

Where  silent-footed   Memory  walks  and 

Lingers   lovingly   with   well-remembered 

Gladness,  and  lives  where  echoes  still  the  laughter 

Of  pure  joy.     Th'  turf  is  green  where  happiness 

Did  walk;  the  streamlets  sing  where  Faith  did  hold 


Her  way,  so  tender-eyed,  of  old,  and  bright 

The  banks  with  flowers  where  Trust  did  dream  and 

Young   Love  whisper  his  sweet  words.     Still   gleam,  all 

Marble  white,  the  palaces  that   Hope  did 

Build  and  garnish  with  all  precious  stones;  still 

Sing  the  birds  of  heaven  such  notes  as  are 

Attuned  to  youth's  and  childhood's  ears,  and  still 

I  see  the  meadow  lands  of  clover  bloom, 

The  scarlet  and  the  gold  of  the  rich  wild 

Honeysuckle,   sweet   with   fullest    fragrance; 

Hear  the  hum  of  happy  bees;  the  buzz  of 

Summer  flies,  with  crystal  wings  where  rainbows 

Gleamed;   see,   golden-winged,  the  butterfly 

Threading  the  pathless  air;  welcome  the  June 

Morns   fair,  all  dewy,  sweet  and  cool;  and  her 

Golden  noons  drowsy  with  odors  from  a 

Thousands   flowers,  her  still,   soft  eves   when  earth 

Was  starred  so  thick  with  gleam  of  fireflies' 

Light,  and  the  skies  were  full  of  silence,  and 

Stars  and  constellations  that  held  each  its 

Wondrous   story.     O   those   tender,  happy 

Days!     A  mother's  love  was  there,  and  there  was 

Sweet,  caressing  tenderness,  easing  all 

Heart  hunger,  and  life  was  all  before,  save 

Only   life's  beginning,  which  seemed   brushed  by 

Angel  wings.     Xo  shadows  darkened  it,  'twas 

All  as  fair  as  Eden.     O  those  golden 

Days  lying  upon  the  hills  of  Sunrise! 

In  the  clear  light  of  young  life's  morning,  dear 

Is  their  memory,  and  like  a  rainbow 

Still  they  arch  my  skies,  and  I  go  forth  to 

Meet  the  coming  century,  stronger  in 

Courage,  and   with  nobler   faith,  because  they 

Crown   me  yet   with  sacred  memories  that 

Blossom  forever  in  the  garden  of 

My  heart — O  tender,  loving  days! 


THE  DYING  DAY.     (1878.) 

The  very  air  lies  golden,   full  and  sweet 

With  dreaminess,  as  if  'twere  steeped  in  thought; 

The  very  mountains  have  a  fuller  meaning 

Touched   with   the  glory   by  the  sunset  wrought, 

And  fold  on  fold  the  white  fogs  creeping  upward, 

Stand  here  and  there  like  pearly  gates  ajar, 

While  rosy  lights  and  purple-tinted  shadows 

Brighten  and  darken  like  a  paling  star. 

The   fair  sweet   hillsides,  in   their  emerald   glory, 

Show  flowery  brightness  like  a  ruby's  heart, 

And    crimson   clouds,    like   scented    rose-leaves,   slowly 

In  the  soft   blue  steal  by  themselves  apart 

Unto  the  West,  and  with  the  amber  brightness 

Which  shines  like  sapphire  on  the  golden  floor 

When  Day  is  sinking  in  her  dying  splendor 

Upon  the  threshold  of  Night's  dusky  door, 

They  mix  and  mingle,  veiling  her  with  beauty, 

And  then  like  pallid  mourners  steal  away, 

While    gently    Night,    with    her    star-jeweled    fingers, 

Closes  the  eyelids  of  departed   Day. 


53 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


THE  DAY  AND  I. 

The  day  breathes  softly,  and  the  silent  trees 
Stir  not  a  leaf  within  the  sleeping  air. 
Birds    flit    from   bough    to   bough,   unknowing   care, 

Glad  in  the  beauty  and  the  mysteries 

Of  silent  sun,  and  skies  so  blue  and  vast, 
Which  ne'er  a  shadow  on  their  pathway  cast. 

Tis  happy  life  above,  and  all  around, 

And  here  soft-footed  Fragrance  silent  treads, 
Breathing  delight,  and  with  rich  Color  weds, 

And  blossoms  make  an  altar  on  the  ground; 
The  tall,  lone  pine  a  very  priest  doth  stand, 
While  bending  cedars  wait  on  every  hand. 

The  sun  pours  down  a  tide  of  golden  light, 
The  lake  is  dimpled  with  his  many  beams, 
And  groweth  glad  to  clasp  the  silver  streams 

That  singing  run  in  their  unhindered  flight 
To  reach  its  breast,  and  there  do  sleeping  lie, 
Cradled  in  silence  'neath  the  cloudless  sky. 

The  meadow-lark  sings  out  for  very  glee, 

The  robin  waketh  into  happy  song, 

The  merry  linnet  trills  his  notes  along 
The  sweet  green  slopes  that  smiling  here  I  see, 

And  Day   is  glad,  and  lo!     I  bend  with  her 

At   Nature's   feet,  a  rev'rent  worshiper. 


FROM  DAY  TO  DAY.     (1899.) 

I   see  new  meaning  in  each  waking  dawn, 
New  glory  in  the  boundlessness  of  skies, 

New  splendor  in  the  sunshine  of  the  morn, 
Catch  anthems  new  in  the  soft  melodies 
Of  million  leaves,  which,  all  breeze-stirred,  do  sing 

The  sweet  world's  psalms,  and   softly  clap  their  hands, 
As  stir  the  crimson   bells  of  opening  flowers; 

New  glory  in  the  mountain  wall  which  stands 
Like  God-built  altar   for  this  world  of  ours. 

Not  quite  the  same  today's  sunshine  that  gleams 

In  golden  light  upon  this  world  of  ours, 
As  that  which  yesterday  lit  up  the  streams, 

Or,   smiling,  lost   itself  amid   the   flowers. 

Yet  not  less   fair,  less  beautiful  the  day 
And  not  less  full  the  sunshine's  cup  of  gold 

In  which  Noon  bathes  her  tresses.     In  Summer's  arms 
The  sweet  Earth  lies  while  her  fair  days  are  told, 

And  maiden  June  unfolds  her  many   charms. 

And  when  the  splendor  of  the  Night  is  here, 

And  the  young  moon  walks  'mid  the  countless  stars, 

And  calm  and  fragrance  fill  the  atmosphere, 
Nor  noise  nor  strife  the  sacred  silence  mars, 
My  soul  drinks  in  the  night  and  seems  to  rise, 

New-winged  by  thought,  into  the  deeps  of  air, 
Filling  the  Vast  above  us;  and  there  it  lies; 

Cradled  in  trust,  while  round  it  everywhere 
God,  ever-present,  fills  the  sea  of  skies. 


TODAY.     (1899.) 

The  rapturous  air  leaps  smiling  to  my  side, 
Smiling  with  sunshine  which  is  flooding  wide 
The  infinite  Vast  above,  around  us  here, 
Which  warms  and  glows  in  Summer's  atmosphere. 

I   feel  the  pulse  of  life  in  everything, 
Throbbing  in   blossoms   as   their  anthems   ring 
In  soft-lipped   fragrance;   in  the  dewy  leaves, 
Clapping  their  million  hands  upon  the  trees. 

It  stirs  the  lake's  sweet  heart  in  ripples  bright 
That  seem  but  silver  echoes  of  the  light, 
And  e'en  the  sands  that  lie  as  if  asleep 
The  breezes  waken   till  they  lightly  creep, 

Soft-footed  as  the  day,  and  wander  wide, 
In  ranks  and  columns  in   a  shifting  tide 
Of  happy  motion,  that   goes   not   astray, 
But  eyeless  hurries  on  its  pathless  way. 

And  footless  grasses  which  the  soil  has  nursed 
Through  its  warm  bosom  have  in  silence  burst, 
And   there  they  lie  outspread   upon  the  sod, 
An  emerald  psalm  writ  by  the  hand  of  God. 

And  the  bright  Sun  treading  the  cloudless  skies 
Catches  the  voice  of  earth's  grand  harmonies, 
Hears  the  great  sea  its  mighty  anthems  roll, 
Filling  the  silences  from  pole  to  pole. 

And  Night  at  last  her  midnight  gate  unbars, 
Hinged  with  the  jewels  of  a  million  stars, 
And  Day  slips  through  it  with  his  soundless  tread, 
Joins  vanished  days  that  one  by  one  have  fled; 
But  o'er  Time's  pathway  the  oncoming  hours 
While   walking   see   another   morrow's   flowers. 


"II.     (1903.) 

Today !     It  fills  the  chalices  of  time, 
With  silent   motion  by  us  full  and  sweet, 

Only  to  blossom  in  tomorrow's  light, 

Which   but   for  it   could   never  be  complete. 

Tomorrow   is   Today   when   it   is   here, 
With    glowing   centuries   upon    its   breast, 

With   centuries   to   come   still   drawing   near, 
With  great  Todays  into  their  fullness  prest. 

Today!     It  fills  the  chalices  of  time, 
It  makes  the  largeness  of  the  years  to  be, 

It  holds  the  seed  of  every  thought  sublime, 
It  is  the  rootlet  of  Eternity. 


THE  DAY.     (1900.) 

I   love  the  Day,  so   full  of  light, 

Of  beauty  rich  and  fair, 
Of  wondrous   skies  and  mountain   height 

And  glory  everywhere. 


Great  Shining,  Golden  Day. 


I  see  the  tiny  blade  of  grass 

Which  sways  before  my  view; 
The    Imcl    and    blossoms    as    I    pass 

Turn   faces  ever  new. 

Color  doth  fold  them  in  her  arms, 

The   soul   of   Fragrance  hides 
Amid  their  many-petaled   charms, 

And   there   unseen   abides. 

And  O  great-bosomed  Noon  doth  stand, 

And   pour   her   golden   wine 
From   the    full   cup   within   her   hand, 

Filled   with  the  warm   sunshine. 

Earth's    glory    fronts    us    everywhere, 

On   land,  in  sky  and  sea, 
But    still   the   unseen    shining    air 

Veils  deeps  of  mystery. 

And   not  until  the  day  is  passed, 

And  silent   Night  is  here, 
Do  the   great   gateways  of  the  Vast, 

Wide  backward  flung,  appear. 

Day  hides  the  stars,  it  shuts  us  in 

This  narrow  world  of  time; 
Were  there  no  night  what  should  we  know 

Of  starry  deeps  sublime? 

And  thus,  like  Night,  doth  Sorrow  draw 

The   spirit's   veil   aside, 
And   lo!   God's   stars   of  love   and   care 

In  God's  own  heavens  abide. 

IT.     (1902.) 

O  Day !  great  shining,  golden  Day,  how  I  love  thee ! 
How  bright  is  the  gold  of  thy  sunbeams  above  me; 
How  rich  without  measure  is  the  wealth  of  thy  light ; 
How  wondrous  the  vision  ye  unroll  to  our  sight! 

The  heaven-reaching  mountains  grow  glad  as  they  hear 
The    sound     of    thy    footsteps     through     Dawn's     gates 

drawing  near, 

And  baptized  with  the  glory  of  color  they  rise, 
In    kingliest    majesty,    saluting    the    skies. 

In   their  emerald   dress   from  the  shadows  of  Night 
The  great  valleys  creep  out  to  rejoice  in  thy  light; 
The  numberless  orchards,  their  leaf-banners  unfurled, 
Stand  forth  in  the  splendor  of  thy  sun-lighted  world. 

And  the  flowers  lift  up  their  sweet  faces  to  thee; 
They  have  sprung  from  the  kiss  of  thy  lips,  and  they  lie 
Thy  beautiful   offspring.     O    fair   Day!     day  divine, 
How  thy  clear  sapphire  skies  in  their  gladness  do  shine. 

God  is  Light  and  is  I,ove,  and  we  see  Him  in  thee; 
Though   He  veileth   His   face,  yet  still  ever  do  we 
Feel  Him  part  of  thy  glory,  thy  infinite  vast 
Like  a   garment   His   presence  alxnit   it   is  cast. 

And  we  think  of  the  life  where  the  shadows  of  time 

Shall  be  lost  in  that  day,  eternal,  sublime, 

Where  God  shineth  forth  in  His  glory  of  light, 

And  "undarkened  by  suns,"   He's  unveiled  to  our  sight. 


DAY.     (1903.) 

O  laughing  sprite!  so  glad  and   free, 
So    full    of    wondrous    witchery. 
Thy  bird-notes   flood  the   upper  air; 
Light  footed  breezes  everywhere 
Toy  with  the  leaves  and  kiss  the  flow'rs. 
While  fragrance  fills  this  world  of  ours. 
The  lavish  sunshine  pours  its  gold, 
And  wraps  the  grasses  fold  on  fold; 
The  water's  silver  sheen  is  seen 
Lying  the  tree-clad   slopes   between 
Within  the  park,  which  here  doth  rest, 
Like    smiling    childhood,    on    the    breast 
Of  the  bright  Day.     The  shadows  drop 
Only  below  the   full-leaved  top 
Of  the  tall  trees  which,  standing,  rise 
Like  sentinels  beneath  the  skies. 

O  glorious  Day !  thy  soul  must  be 

The   offspring   of   infinity— 

Of  God,  who  spread  the  shining  skies, 

Who  bade  the  lofty  mountains  rise, 

Who  stretched  the  seas  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  stills  their  storm-tossed,  angry  roar, 

Who  makes  to  open  at  thy  kiss — 

In   colors   rich   as   amethyst — 

The   countless   flowers   that   blooming   rise 

To   glad   with   beauty   all  our  eyes. 

O  Day!  I  love  thee.     Sun  and  sky 

And  gentle  breezes  floating  by, 

And  bird-notes,  flow'rs  and  swaying  trees, 

And   Beauty's   glorious   harvestries — 

These  are  thy  children,  and  we  see 

In  them  the  touch  of  Deitv. 


SUNSET.       (1895.) 

Good-night,  bright  Sun,  with  eye  of  golden  light, 
The  chambers  of  the  West  ope  wide  their  doors 
With  gold-paved  threshold  and  rose-burnished  floors, 
The  stars  are  sleeping  on  the  breast  of  Night, 
But  they  will  waken  as  ye  sink  from  sight. 

The  rock-ribbed  mountains  and  the  quiet  vales 
Draw  rosy  mantles  'round  as  daylight  pales, 

And  stars  shine  forth,  and  all  the  silent  deep 

Of  sky   twinkles   with   glory;  wondrous   sweep 
Of  ever-circling   worlds !  Revelation   vast, 

Beyond   all   dreaming  of  the  daylight's  hours    < 
The  darkness  bringeth !  Even  thus,  at  last, 

When  death  shall  come  to  free  these  souls  of  ours 
Shall  vision  broaden  as  we  reach  the  Vast. 


II.     (1901.) 

The  Sun  is  sinking  in  the  golden  West, 

The  winds  scarce  whisper  'mid  the  many  leaves; 

One  shining  star  Eve  wears  upon  her  breast. 
And  glorious  are  the  colors  that  she  weaves 


The  Months  and  Seasons. 


On  the  far  mountain  tops,  whose  purpling  hue 
Is  mixed  with  sunbeams  Day  hath  left  behind, 

Spreading  their  glory  out  beneath  the  blue, 
Paving  a  path  for  the  soft-footed  wind. 

How  still- the  Earth,  as  if  she  musing  lay, 
Or  told  her  beads  beneath  the  coming  stars; 

The  shadows  fall— good-night,  O  lovely  Day! 
Within  the  west  the  sunset  draws  her  bars. 

O  the  great   Vast  that  lies  within  the  night! 

Thought  cannot  bridge  it,  Fancy  cannot  dare 
The   endless   orbits    hidden    from   our   sight, 

In   which   great   worlds   are   circling  everywhere. 

Be  still,  my  soul,  -and  know  that  God  is  here, 
His  hand  on   all  things,  through  eternal  space 

Guiding  each  sun,  each  planetary  sphere, 
As  all  sweep  on  in  their  allotted  place. 

III.   (1897.) 

O   doors   on   starry   hinges    hung ! 
Within  the   West  ye  backward   swung, 
As  sank  the  Sun  when  day  was  done 
Into   wide   space   away,   afar, 
Behind  the  glory  of  a  star. 

And  then  outflashed  the  golden  flame 
Which  from  some  sky-built  altar  came, 
Which  earth   doth   neither   know  nor  name; 
But  O    the  splendor  of  the  sky 
That  did  along  its  threshold  lie! 

O  golden  Sunset !     could  I  see 

The    Hand    divine   that    painted   thee, 

I'd  find  the  Hand  that  leadeth  me— 

The  Hand  that  guides  the  stars,  and  holds 

Earth  and  her  children  in  its   folds. 

A  SUMMER  SUNSET. 

O  golden  is  the  sunset  West ! 

How  rich  its  splendor  stored ! 

How  bright  its   amber   glory     poured 

From  shining  sea  to  mountain  crest, 

O'er  the  sun-drowned  valleys  and  the  hills, 

O'er  the  ocean   and   the  murmuring  rills, 

While  there  above  the  bright  horizon's  line 

The  Sun  lies  dreaming,  ready  for  his  rest. 

Glorious  the  pause  before  he  sinks  from  sight, 

While  yet  the  brightness  of  his  illimitable  light 

Enfolds  the  world,  still  shadowless  and  fair, 

And  the  glad  birds  call  each  to  each,  where 

In  their  leafy  bowers  they  sit  in  glee, 

Hushing  their  chords  of  sweetest  minstrelsy 

Till  morn  shall  come.     A  hush  falls  down 

Like  a  sweet  benediction  on  the  town, 

And  all  the  wide  green  spaces  of  the  land; 

And  even  we  more  softly  breathing  stand 

To  watch  the  twilight's  coming.     The  gentle  flowers 

Draw  closer  their  soft  hoods  of  tender  leaves, 

While  the  light  breeze  touches  them  and  weaves 


Its  good-night  whisper  in  a  tone  so  low 

We  scarce  can  hear  it,  though  it  soundeth  so 

Like  music.     The  Sun's  light  gilds  the  trees 

On  their  high  tops,  and  in  and  out  the  murmuring  bees 

Drone  softly  yet,  till  lo!  a  star 

Twinkles  above  the  sunset's  fading  gold, 

The   dark   shadows    fall    from    far, 

And  the  young  Moon  its  silver  crescent  hangs 

In  the  thin  air,  and  then  the  day  is  told. 

Yet  still  we  sit  and  dream  in  quiet  reveries, 

While  out  the  planets  flash  that  gild  the  night, 

And   thought  to  other  worlds  takes  swiftest   flight. 

O  glory  of  the  darkness !  for  our  eyes 

Ye  lift  the  curtain  which  with  daylight   falls 

.between  us  and  infinities,  and  lo! 

We  see  world  after  world  slow-marching  go 

Down  the  vast  ether  plains;  we  stand 

And   front  the  universe,  while  sinks   from  sight 

Our  own  small  planet  in  the  sea  of  Night. 

SUNSET  ON  SAN  FRANCISCO  BAY.     (1892.) 

The  Sun  went  down  while  clouds  of  gray, 

As  toward  the  WTest  he  took  his  way, 

Muffled  his   footsteps  and  his  face, 

Of  all  his  glory  not  a  trace 

On  sea  or  land  or  sullen  sky, 

Till  lo!  as  passing  swiftly  by 

The  rim  of  waters,  where  we  see 

Melt  into  vast  immensity 

Ocean  and  air,  the  veil  was  lift 

And  heaven  itself  seemed  there  adrift, 

Its  golden  floor  spread   far  and  wide, 

Floating    upon    the   ocean's   tide; 

The  splendor  of  its  light  the  world 

Drank  into   fullness — it  was  hurled 

On  land  and  sea  and  mountain  height, 

Like  some  fire-opal's  melted  light, 

And  lo!  the  Sun,  a  ring  of  fire, 

Brake  from  the  clouds,  his   glowing  pyre 

Transfigured   earth,   and,   glorified, 

Sank  like   a   god   beneath  the  tide. 


SUNSET  AT  SANTA  MONICA. 

There  was   a   dreaming   goddess   in   the   sea, 
Her  floating  hair  made  ripples  on  the  deep; 
The  whispering  waves  upon  the  beach  did  creep, 
And  clung  to  the  white  sands  lingeringly. 

The  sea  had  hushed  its  murmurs  and  did  lie 

As  if  its  soul  were  passing,  while  on  high 

Above  its  western  rim  the  sun  hung  red. 

And  golden  beams  upon  the  water  shed, 

Till  all  their  deeps  seemed  turned  to  liquid  gold; 

The  winds  breathed  not,  and  passing  time  was  told 

In  the  hushed  silence  of  the  coming  eve. 

Xo  leaf  stirred;  not   a  bird   did   weave 

A    note    of   song;  no    insect's    hum, 

The  warm,  still,  quiet   air  was  dumb. 


56 


Evening. 


The  mounts  grew  rosy  red,  a  flush 

Of  crimson,  through  the  purple  hush 

That   wrapped  them,   stole,  transfigured   they, 

Like  altars  of  the  dying  day, 

Gleamed  with  the  glory  of  the  light. 

Xight  thrust  her  fingers  through  the  grass, 

And  long,  lank  shadows  everywhere 

Fell  on  the  meadows  sleeping  there. 

But  still,  like  swift  sword-thrusts  did  pass 
The   golden  •  sunbeams,   dropping   still 
Aslant  the  wide,  low  levels   fair, 
And   on   the   summit   of  the  hill. 

Then,  to  the  cool,  deep,  sapphire  sea, 
Swept  by  his  garments'   golden  trail, 
The  Sun  sank  low  upon  the  brim 
Of  quiet  waters  on  the  rim 
Of  the  wide,  opal-shining   West; 
Then   closed   the   Sun   its   shining   lid, 
And   by  the  soft,   blue  wave  was  hid, 
And  Day  was  done. 

EVENING.     (1902.) 

I   watch  the   gold   upon  the  swaying  trees, 
As  Evening  nears,  and  in  the  shining  West 
The  Sun  is  sinking  to  his  nightly  rest, 

And  insects  breathe  their  sweet  antiphonies. 

Like  God's  high  priests  the  tall  trees  heavenward  rise, 
With  leaf-wrought  censers  by  the  sunbeams  filled, 
And  countless  odors  by  the  flowers  are  spilled, 

And  every  leaf  smiles  upward  to  the  skies. 

The  sleeping  lake  has  smoothed  its  silver  face, 
Tt  lies  unruffled  in  its  perfect  peace, 
As  the  soft  winds  their  vexing  whispers  cease, 

And  holy  calm  within  the  hour  finds  place. 

And  now  the  stars — God's  treasuries  of  gold — 
Flash  out  within  the  fields  of  deepening  blue, 
Wide  realms  of  space  unfold  unto  our  view — 

With  utmost  silence  is  the  Vast  unrolled. 

NIGHT.     (1882.) 

Ihe   whispering   echoes   dance  amid   the  trees, 

The  amber  sunset  wears  a  golden  smile, 
The  sunbeams  tremble  with  the  passing  breeze 

In  long,  slant  ripples  on  the  leafy  pile 
Where   green   boughs   bend   above   the  tall   tree's   trunk. 

Bird  calls  to  bird  in  soft,  sweet,  chirping  notes, 
The  cricket's  voice  has  to  a  whisper  sunk, 

As  listening  to  the  music  from  their  slender  throats, 
The  Sun  sinks  down  and  faintest  shadows  steal 

From  the  far  West — the  gold  is  mixed  with  gray, 
And   from  the  deep-blue  sky  I  almost   feel 

The  stars   flash  out  their   far,   faint,  trembling  ray. 

Xight  hath  its  stars !  O  glory  that  is  hid 
By  the  clear  shining  of  the  noonday  sun ! 

I  love  the  Night  with  her  star-fringed  lid 
Closing  above  the  world  when  Day  is  done. 


What  impress  of  vast  space,  sweet  prophetess,  she  bears! 

I  low  points  her  hand  beyond  the  scenes  of  Time ! 
With  her  what  vast,  unhindered  flights  our  fancy  dares, 

Into  what  realms  of  mystery  sublime 
It  soars!  She  drops  the  bars  between 

Time  and  all  outer  realms  that  lie  afar, 
And  spreads  before  us  all  the  wondrous  scene, 

And  gives  to  us  as  stepping-stones  each  star. 

II.     (1894.) 

Melt  now  the  hills  against  the  purpling  blue, 
And  dreamy  shadows  dreamy  forests  fill, 
And  bird  and  bee  and  everything  is  still 

As  is  the  silent  dropping  of  the  dew, 

Raining  its  pearls  Earth's  star-lit  chambers  through. 
E'en  the  brook's  murmurs  seem  more  hushed  and  lo\v, 
As  if  scarce  breathing  in  its  onward  flow. 

With  Xight's  soft  fingers  pressed  upon  its  breast, 

As  if  to  hush  it  into  moveless  rest. 

E'en  the  trees  slumber,  every  leaf  is  still, 

And  every  blossom  in  the  wooded  dell, 

While  all  the  grasses  lean  as  if  to  tell 

Good-night  to  bird  and  bee  in  sweet  good  will 

As  diapasons  of  vast  silence  swell. 

III.  (1897.) 

The  stars  come  out,  the  very  winds  are  still 
As  if  Xight,  breathing  softly  'mid  her  trees, 
Communed   of  Xature's  silent  mysteries, 

And  drunk  to  utmost  largeness  there  her  fill 

Of  the  great  Vast  which  holds  us  in  its  clasp, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  that  unseen  line, 
Dividing  human  sight   from  sight  divine, 

Infinite  knowledge,  too,   from  human  grasp. 

The   far  star-worlds,  those  twinkling  points   of   light, 
The  jewels  set  within   Xight's  shining  crown, 
Like  eyes  of  countless  angels  looking  down 

To  this  earth-speck  they  dare  not  in  their  flight. 

What  know  we  of  them,  of  those  silent  spheres 
Sweeping  immensity,  their  orbits  hung 
Where  erst  life  out  of  mighty  chaos  sprung 

In  the  dim  morning  of  eternal  years? 

O  Xight!  upon  thy  holy  face  there  lies 

The  awful  shadow  of  immensity, 

Truths  unrevealed  of  Xature's  mystery. 
The  alphabet  of  God  within  thy  skies. 
When  shall  we  learn  to  read  it  and  when  know 

All  that  thy  starry  spaces  hold  and  hide. 

Where  God  hath  snowed  his  worlds  and  cast  them  wide 
Through  all  the  blue  fields  which  the  Vast  doth  show? 

IV.  (1901.) 

The  starry   Xight  hath  voices  all  its  own, 
Like  whispers   from  some  far-off  world  outblown, 
Stealing  adown   the  silent,  moonlit   air, 
Where  roses  bloom,  and  blossoms  everywhere 
Fill  our  sweet  gardens.     Sometimes  a  bird, 
Breathing  sweet  music  'mid  the  boughs,  is  heard, 
And  silver  ripples  on  the  lake's  pure  breast 


57 


The  Month*  and  Seasons. 


Smile  in  the  moonlight  where  the  waters  rest. 
And  little  blades  of  grass  do  softly  stir, 
With  bended  heads,  like  rev'rent  worshiper. 
O  Night  is  dear,  and  its  great  soul  I  see, 
Communion  holds  with  vast  infinity! 

V.  (1901.) 

One  small  white  cloud  within  the  deeps  of  air, 
Cradled  in  sunshine,  beautifully  fair, 
And  its  bright  edges,  painted  by  the  sun, 
Grow  golden  while  Day  .smiles,  till,  one  by  one, 
The  stars  come  out  within  the  fields  of  blue, 
And  the  great  mountains,  old  yet  ever  new, 
Drop  their   fair  pearls  of  color,  and  the  Night 
Wraps   them    in   purple,   veiling  them    from   sight. 

And  then  such  hush  upon  all  Nature  falls, 
The  breezes  sink  to  rest,  the  bird  no  longer  calls 
Upon  its  mate;  the  soft  hum  of  the  bees 
We  do  not  hear  amid  the  many  trees; 
The  flowers  droop  their  heads  as  if  asleep, 
And  the  dew  falls  as  if  the  sky  did  weep 
For  the  fair  Day  so  lately  gone  to  rest 
In  the  dim  chambers  of  the  darkening  West. 

But  O  the  wonder  that  the  Night  reveals! 

No  longer  Earth  the  one  great  star  that  wheels 

Through  wide  sky  spaces— worlds  on  worlds  we  see 

Dotting  the  vastness  of  immensity. 

A  little  speck,  an  atom  this  world  gleams 

Amid  the  glory  of  the  countless  beams 

Of  the  broad  star  universe  which  lies 

Filling  the  deep  infinity  of  skies. 

So  as  the  darkness  doth  unveil  the  Vast, 

Death  shall  enlarge  our  wisdom  when  we  cast 

The  scales  of  flesh  aside,  and  soul-life  springs 

Into  full  oneness  with  eternal  things, 

Drinking  God's   glory  in  until  we  rise — 

The  soul  all  eye,  all  ear — in  Paradise. 

Death  shall  bring  the  soul's  morning  as  the  night 

Brings  countless  stars  the  daylight  hides  from  sight. 

VI.  (190?.) 

O  Night !  I  long  to  hide  myself  within  thine  arms, 
To   study   thee,   to   look   into   thy   wondrous    face, 

To  feel  the  soothing  glory  of  thy  many  charms, 

And  wander  ever  on  and  on  with  thee  through  space. 

How  measureless  and   vast  the  skies  ye  do  outspread, 
Star-lighted,  planet-filled  their  wondrous  spaces  be; 

In  these  great  deeps  \ve  find  undimmcd  above  our  head, 
The  written   alphabet  of  God's  infinity. 

Oh,  were  it  not  for  thee  we  should  not  see  the  stars, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  Sun  but  hinders  sight, 

Shuts  out  infinity  of  space  with  golden  bars, 

And    holds    us    earth-captives    till    thou    dost    come,    O 
Night ! 

And  sometimes  doth  sorrow  like  the  Night  unfold 
Unknown,   infinite  deeps  of  God's   own  loving  care, 

Till  holy  Trust  doth  lead  us   from  Doubt's  barren  cold, 
And  light  and  love  and  faith  are  round  us  everywhere. 


0   BLESSED   NIGHT! 

Eve,  starry-crowned  and  silent,  and  with  dusky 
Eyes  and  purple-shadowed  hair  is  here,  and 
The  infinitude  of  space  is  on  her 

Forehead.     Worlds  on   worlds  move  round  her,  and  we 
Seem,  where  scattered  lies  the  dust  of  shining 
Spheres,  to  feel  our  way  to  heaven.  Up  through  the  dark 
Thought  climbs  to  outmost  space.     Through  all  its  hush 
God  breathes.     The  stars  are  but  the  shining  points 
Where  He  has  laid  His  finger.     Behind  them 
We  feel  the  throb  of  Being  uncreate. 
Night  is  electric  with  His  presence,  and 
Earth  swings  nearer  heaven.     O  blessed  Night ! 

NIGHT  AND  MORNING.     (1894.} 
\Vith  full-moon  splendor  shines  the  starry  sky; 
The  planets  dream,  the  vagrant  winds  go  by, 
Touching  the  flowers  and  roaming  listlessly, 
Loitering  at  times  to  sip  their  fragrant  sweets, 
Hiding  'mid  orange  blooms,  or  where  the  white  rose  meets 
The  lily,   then  hurrying   softly  by 
To  where,  with  modest   faces,  violets  lie, 
With  blue  eyes  lifted  to  the  star-gemmed  sky. 
They  tarry  gently,  sometimes  sink  to  sleep, 
Like  a  tired  child,  while  dew-wet  blossoms  keep 
Their  silent  vigils  all  the  hushed  night  through, 
Wrapped  in  soft  star-beams  and  the  silver  dew. 
The  great   Earth  lies   as  if  in  pulseless  swoon, 
And  sound  lies  dreaming  in  the  midnight  noon 
Till  Morning  nears,  and  then,  lo!  so  soon 
As  the  first  glimmer  of  her  garments  shine 
In  faintest  violet  along  the  line 
Of  the  dim  East,  then  ripple  into  gold 
As  the  great  Sun-God  touches   fold  on  fold. 
Sound  wakes  again,  and  dreaming  Silence  stirs, 
And  Dawn  lifts  slowly  all  the  cloudy  blurs 
That   Night  had   spilled.     Amid  the  many  trees 
Waken  the  birds  with  twitterings  soft  and  low, 
And  light-winged  breezes  gaily  come  and  go, 
Laden  with  dewy  fragrance  from  the  snow 
Of  lilies  fair  and  all  things  blossoming; 
The   far  stars  sink  into  Light's  sustaining 
Sea.     The  bee  wakes;  the  joyous  butterfly 
Pursues  his  viewless  path  beneath  the  sky, 
Skimming  the  air  with  lightest   dalliance, 
While  the  many  myriad  sunbeams   glance 
From  mountain  heights  and  lofty  swaying  crest 
Of  tallest  trees  and  running  river's  breast; 
The  river  turns  to  gold;  the  mountains,  crowned 
With  light,   are  flaming  altars;  the  profound 
Of  skyey  deep — a  vast  sapphire  bending 
Above  the  world,  beautiful,  unending- 
Gleams,  catching  the   glory  of  the  rising   Sun, 
As  up  Day's  steeps  he  climbs  and  swiftly  hurls 
His  volleyed  arrows,  filling  the  whole  world's 
Wide,  dewy  atmosphere  with   golden   light. 
In  breezy  lightness,  filling  all  the  white 
Clear  glory  of  the  morn,  the  swaying  leaves 
Clap  their  glad  hands;  the  wide  wood  breathes 
Music.     From  everything  a   glad  voice  breaks 
As   from  the  darkness  a   new   Morning  wakes. 


"All  Natute's  heatt  is  turned  to  you  in  pleading.  " 


TO  THE  CLOUDS— IN  DROUTH-TIME.     (1876.) 

O  Clouds  \  that  hung  above  with  dark  and  frowning  faces, 
With  bosoms  heaving  as  if  storms  were  pent   within, 
With    black   and    furrowed    brows   such   as   the   thunder 

chases,         • 
Bend  low,  we  pray,  and  kiss  the  e;irth  with  soft -lipped 


Pass  not  away  from  the  low-voiced  and  perfumed  plead 
ing 

Of  flowers  that  drooping  hang  upon  their  withered  steins, 

From  brown  and  sighing  grasses,  and  mute  plains  that, 
fading, 

Lift  sadly  day  by  day  their  grain-wrought  diadems. 

All  Nature's  fainting  heart  is  turned  to  you  in  pleading, 

And  voiceless  prayers  are  lifted  by  each  leaf-lipped 
thing — 

O  Clouds  \  give  to  these  prayers  a  speedy,  gracious  heed 
ing, 

And  let  the  welcome  rain  your  benedictions  bring. 

THE  COMING  OF  THE  RAIN.     (1876.) 

O,  mamma  dear,  where  has  the  Sun  gone? 

Why  is  he  hiding    his  face? 
What  is  the  Rain  crying  for — is  it  because 

Clouds  pushed  the  Sun  out  of  his  place? 

No,  darling,  each  flower  has  been  lifting 

Its  poor  little  face  to  the  sky, 
And  the  hills  have  grown  dumb  in  their  sorrow, 

While  the  Sun  wandered  wantonly  by. 

Their  lips  were  parched  and  were  burning. 
Though  moistened  with  mist  and  the  dew 

Which  Night,  with  her  star-jeweled  fingers 
Dropped  lovingly  down  from  the  blue. 

I   fancy  the  winds  must  have  heard  them, 

And  out  from  the  pitying  West, 
And  the  soft  tender  heart  of  the  South, 

Their   forces   they   hurriedly   press'd. 

And  they  hunted  the  Clouds  that  had  wandered, 
That  were  full  of  the  life-giving  rain, 

And  they  brought  them  to  water  the  Earth, 
All  athirst  from  hilltop  to  plain. 

STORM  PICTURES.     (1892.) 
Before  the  Storm. 

The  clouds  were  piled  in  masses  in  the  West, 
So  wonderful  they  seemed  a  new  world  born. 
With  mountains,  lakes,  with  crystal  waters  torn 
With  billowy  waves  tossing  in  wild  unrest, 
Yet  touched  with  silver  was  each  shining  crest. 
Then  there  were  castles  turreted  and  fair, 
And   grand   cathedrals  lifted   in   the  air, 


And  vale-like  spaces  for  proud  cities'  rest, 

And  spectral   forms  that  might  have  hidden  wings; 

Perhaps  the  sunset  painters  lingered  there, 
For  when  Night  neared,  swift  us  a  bird  that  flings 

Itself  to  motion,  lo!  within  the  air 
A  wondrous  picture!  every  cloud  was  bright, 
Transfigured,  glorious  in  the  sunset  light. 

The  Storm. 

Then  Morning  came,  so  sullen-faced  and  dark, 
With  all  the  wide  space  filled  with  falling  rain, 
Which  stabbed  so  swift  the  sunless  air  amain 
With  crystal  daggers,   and  the  winds  cried  "hark," 
With  strange,  sad  voices  rushing  'mid  the  dark 
And  trembling  branches  of  the  swaying  trees, 
Their  leaves-  breathing  their  wordless  mysteries; 
And  some  were  downward  swept  like  fragile  barl;, 
Tossed  on  strange  seas,  but  O  the  Earth  was  glad  ! 

The  sleeping  roots  stirred  softly  in  her  breast, 
The  white  sands  of  the  streams  with  joy  were  ma;l, 

As  little  rills  around  them  swiftly  prest. 
For   the   soul   of  Life  in   the   raindrops   lay, 
And  mountain  and  valley  were  glad  that  day. 

After  the  Storm. 

How  blue  the  heavens,  how  wonderfully  fair! 
Like  a  great  shining  sapphire  hangs  the  sky, 
Bird  song  and  fragrance  wander  lightly  by. 

And  gleeful  in  its  brightness  seems  the  air — 

Throbbing  with  life  its  pulses  everywhere, 

And  flowers  breathe  fragrance  that  is  new  and  sweet 
Earth  from  her  dream  is  waking  'neath  our  feet — 

For   Beauty's  advent  we  may  now  prepare; 

And  soon  some  morning  will  our  waking  eves 
Behold   her   million-bannered   army   stand 
With  emerald  blades  uplift  on  every  hand, 

And  blossoms  sweet  of  many-colored  dyes; 
Summer   will   dream   within    December's   arms, 
And,  graceless  robber,  he  will  steal  her  charms. 

OUR  WINTER  RAINS.     (1892.) 

Whore   are   the   rains — the   crystal-footed    rains 

That  glad  our  semi-tropic  clime  as  slips 

The  Old  Year  to  his  rest?     That  with  rainbows 

Crown  the  glad  Young  Year,  and  like  a  nimbus 

Shining,  gleam  around  his  head?     O  deeps  of  air! 

Where  in  your  infinite  caves,  with  sunbeams 

Glowing  and  golden,  do  they  hidden  lie? 

Keep  ye  the  waterdrops  for  diamonds 

To  deck  some  far-off  world  new-wedded  to 

A  sun?     or  have  the  light  winds,  with  restless 

Feet,  chased  them  with  merry  laughter 

To  some  sky  haunt,  and  from  their  cloudy  cups 

Bid  sun  and  star  drink  them  like  wine? 

The  marshaled  Clouds  look  on  us  from  the  skv, 


59 


The  Drouth  and  the  Rain. 


And  lean  above  the  heights,  or  sweep  along 

Like  mighty  chariots  of  some  awful 

Thunderer,  or  rise  like  black  battlements 

Beetling  the  West,  and  then  the  west  wind  blows, 

Or  north,  or  some  sweet,  warm  breath,  as  fragrant 

As  June's  dawns,  comes  from  the  far,  sunny  south, 

And  in  a  twinkling  vanish  from  sight 

Battlements  and  cloud-wrought  chariot.     Forth 

Looks  the  bright  Sun.     The  blue  is  sapphire-like; 

The  infinite  spaces  of  the  sky's  great  dome 

Show  not  a  shadow.     Earth  looks  up  athirst; 

Even  her  rivers  pant  amid  the  sands; 

The  withered   grasses   droop.     The  flowers   hold 

Empty  cups.     Noon  sits  with   fevered  lips, 

While  Night,  her  tongue  dew-moistened,  pleads  for  rain. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  RAIN. 

Soft-footed  as  the  stars  the  sunshine  steals 
About  us  here — the  hushed  breeze  yields 
To  the  faint  touch  of  Silence,  and  a-dream 
It  lies  upon  the  breast  of  flow'rs    which  lean 
Beside  the  fair  lake's  breast,  as  if  to  see 
The  wonders  of  their  being's  mystery. 


One  cloud  lies  black  the  shining  blue  within, 

With  ragged  edge  and  long  arm  furrowing 

The  fields  of  space,  as  if  'twere  striving  there 

To  find  some  lurking  tempest,  hidden  where 

The  rains  are  loitering,  while  the  Earth  lies  dumb, 

Tortured  with  thirst  for  rains  which  do  not  come. 

O  Father,  hear  us!  Let  the  deeps  of  sky, 

Touched  by  Thy  power,  lift  their  great  flood-gates  high; 

Let  the  vast  cisterns  of  the  Storm  be  filled 

And  thy  warm  rains  upon  our  soil  be  spilled; 

Let  thy  rich  harvests  smile  upon  the  plain, 

While  Plenty  walks  through  all  our  land  again. 

WAITING  FOR  THE  RAIN.     (1904.) 

The  sky  bends  cloud-veiled  face  above  the  dry,  parched 

earth, 

Gigantic  pillars  rise  and  touch  the  zenith  high; 
Like  lofty  Titans  do  they  tower  in  majesty. 
We  wonder  if  behind  their  vast,  unmeasured  girth 
The  storms  do  slumber  and  the  longed-for  rains  do  bide, 
And  there  in  cruel  mockery  in  secret  wait. 
Will  they  not  open  for  the  Earth  their  great  floodgate? 
Upon  the  roaming  winds  will  they  not  quickly  ride 
And  touch  with  jeweled  raindrops  all  the  flowers, 
And  find  the  harvest  seeds  that  sleep  within  the  Earth, 
And  all  the  grassy  blades  that,  too,  are  waiting  birth 
Within  the  mighty  womb  of  this  fair  land  of  ours? 
The  Sun  looks  out  with  golden  beams  within  the  West, 
Yet  higher  and  higher  climb  the  clouds  within  the  East; 
They  drape  the  mountains  and  cover  every  crest, 
But  still  yet  smiles  the  golden  sun  within  the  West. 
O  Night,  sweet  Night !  as  you  drop  your  curtain  down, 
Whisper  the  Clouds  to  give  us  gracious  showers, 


To  pour"  their  benediction  on  the  fields  and  flowers, 
From  bare  and  thirsty  vale  to  lofty  mountain's  crown. 
Then  will   thanksgivings    rise   from   every    leaf-tongued 

thing, 

From  the  wide,  bare  plains  where  sleeping  grasses  lie, 
From  the  glad,  cleansed  air  where  our  sweet  song-birds 

fly, 
And  from  our  hearts  our  grateful  thanks  to  God  we'll 

bring. 


THE  RAINS  ARE  COMING. 

Oh,   the   rains    are   coming! 

Don't   you  hear  the   grasses   stirring? 

Don't  you  hear  the  bees  a-humrning? 

In  the  sunshine  soft  and  golden, 

Filling  all  the  skies  that  bend 

Above  the  mountains  olden? 

Oh,  the  rains  have  washed  them  clear! 

And  such  wondrous  depths  appear 

That  we  wonder  whither 

We  might  fly,  if  we  could  try 

Our  wings  here  and  thither. 

Oh,  the  rains  are  coming! 

And  the  flowers  are  getting  ready, 

Ready   for  the  winter  blooming, 

And  the  little  birds  are  tuning 

All  their  little  throats  for  song; 

And  the  crickets  hop  along 

Ready  for  their  happy  chirping; 

And  the  caterpillars  lurking 

In  the  sunshine  quiver, 

And  they  would,  if  they  could, 

Run,  they  know  not  whither. 

Oh,  the  rains  are  coming! 

And  the  little  roots  are  stirring 

That  have  slept  throughout  the  Summer 

All  the  brown  and  dead  earth  under, 

And  they  soon  will  lift  their  heads, 

Wearing  for  a  Winter  bonnet 

Tender  stalks  with  green  leaves  on  it; 

And  they'll  stretch  up  every  day, 

Higher  as  they'd  run  away; 

If  they  could,  oh,  they  would 

To  the  star-worlds  stray. 

Oh,  the  rains  are  coming! 

And  the  white  sands  of  the  river 

I  am  sure  are  all  a-quiver 

Waiting  for  the  stream  to  kiss  them, 

Waiting  for  the  running  river 

By  whose  side  the  grasses  bend, 

While  the  dropping  sunbeams  send 

All  their  golden  beauty  down 

On  the  daisies  like  a  crown. 

And  they  would,  if  they  could, 

Drink  the  water  down. 


When  the  Rain  ( 


omt'ts. 


Oh,  the  rains  are  coming ! 
Soon,  oh,  soon,  the  sweet  wild  clover 
Which  the  wild  bees  hover  over 
Will  put  on  its  robes  of  beauty, 
With  its  purple  blossoms  shining, 
With  the  morning-glories  turning 
Where  the  breezes  creep  so  softly, 
And  the  palm-tree  groweth  lofty, 
Like  an  em'rald  hung  in  air, 
You  shall  see  bird  and  bee 
Sipping  honey  there. 


WHEN  THE  RAIN  COMES.     (1898.) 

The  hills  are  all  athirst,  and  brown  they  rise 

Against   the  blue  magnificence  of  skies; 

Like  giant  vast  each  lifts  his  mighty  head; 

The  grasses  lying  on  their  shoulders  dead, 

As  if  growth  were  forgotten  and  old  Time 

Had    ceased    to    feed    his    children    with   the   thyme 

Of  fruitfulness.     Xo  root  is  there  astir, 

Sweet   Nature   feels   no  pulse  abeat   for  her 

Upon  those  hills  beyond  us,  where  we  see 

Her  in  deep  trance  of  stirless  mystery; 

There  she  will  lie  like  a  dead  goddess  till 

The  skies   are  clouded,  and  its   great  cisterns   fill 

With  rush  of  waters,  and  the  blessed  Rain 

Moistens  her  lips  and  sets  athrob  again 

Her  silent  pulses;  then,  O  then  shall  we 

Her  new  life  wakening  into  beauty  see. 

The  miracle  of  growth  will  meet  our  eyes, 

And  earth  be  fairer  than  her  shining  skies. 

Clothed  in  fresh  garments  of  the  richest  green, 
Jeweled  with  flowers  will  Xature  then  be  seen, 
Her  face  as  fair  as  young  life  ever  shows, 
Lovely  with  lily  and  with  blushing  rose, 
Her  breath  as  fragrant  as  the  Summer's  own, 
Which  comes  to  us  o'er  beds  of  blossoms  blown. 
And  O  the  glory  of  her  rain-washed  skies! 
Illimitable  in  deepness  to  our  eyes, 
Looking  as  if  through  some  wide,  unseen  door 
We  might  find  God  and  walk  forevermore 
Through  the  great  Vast  above  us,  shining  clear, 
A  realm  of  light,  a  flowing  atmosphere 
Of  untold  glory.     Then  the  Earth  is  fair, 
The  hills  like  gods  rise  glorious  everywhere, 
The  plains  smile  like  a  child  in  beauty  dressed, 
And  all  our  world  is  wed  to  loveliness. 


THE  BLESSED  RAIN.     (1903.) 

The  very  earth  is  laughing  now 
With  gladness  at  the  copious  rain 

Which  falls  upon  the  hillside's  brow, 
And  on  the  emerald-covered  plain. 


The   growing   grasses   all   do   hear, 

The  blossoms  smile  and  lift  their  face; 

The  flowering  trees  are  standing  near 
And  pouring  fragrance  into  space. 

The  tinkling  raindrops  seem  like  notes 
Of  glad  bells  filling  all  the  air. 

How  soft  and  low  their  music  floats- 
Low  as  a  saint's  voice  when  at  prayer. 

We  hear  in  them  the  promise  sweet 
Of  harvests  full  and  rich  and  free, 

Each  drop  that  falls  beneath  our  feet 
Whispers  of  plenty  that  shall  be. 

The   Sun   is   hiding  as   they   fall, 

But   still  the   Earth  is   glad   and   gay, 

From  lowly  grasses  to  the  tall 

Leaf-bannered  trees  that  o'er  us  sway. 

The  clouds,  like  wings  of  blessings  spread 
Above  our  heads,  fill  all  the  sky, 

And  rich  the  treasures  that  they  shed — 
How  full  their  blessed  ministry! 

The  streamlets  leap  amid  the  sands, 
And  gather  heart  as  on  they  go; 

The  river  breaks  its  narrow  bands 
And  laughs  at  its  new  overflow. 

And  when  the  storm  is  past,  how  we 
Shall  welcome  sun  and  shining  blue! 

The  world  will  then  be  fair  to  see, 
For  Growth  will  marshal  here  anew 

Her  great,  grand  army,  silently, 
With  rank  on  rank  and  file  on  file, 

They'll  capture  Nature,  till  we  see 

The  whole  land  with  new  beauty  smile. 

The  flowers  will  wake  to  newer  life, 
And  bloom  afresh  upon  their  stems; 

Lilies  and  roses  will  be  rife 

With   new-wrought,   fragrant  diadems. 

And  oh,  the  rain-washed  skies !  how  fair ! 

How  deep  and  vast  will  they  outspread! 
A  sun-filled  sea  of  shining  air, 

A  light-wrought  curtain  overhead. 

As  noon  were  in  the  valleys  born. 
And  all  her  golden  glory  filled 

The  heart  of  day,  from  early  morn 
Till  the  unhindered  starlight  spilled 


-.1 


The  Dnmth  and  the  Rain. 


Its  radiant  silver  on  Night's  breast, 
Bringing  uncounted  worlds  to  view 

That  in  the  deeps  of  ether  rest- 
That  world-cradling,  star-sown  blue. 

O  fair,  so  fair,  so  wondrous  fair, 
Beyond  all  other  lands  we  know, 

This  land  of  ours  when  parented 
By  sun  and  rain;  its  overflow 

Of  wondrous  harvests  all  the  year 

Makes  glad  our  hearts,  and  summer  skies 

Are  cloudless,  and  we  never  fear 
The  maddened  tempest's  batteries. 

They  are  not  here;  a  land  of  calm, 
Of  blessed  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 

The  land  of  peace,  the  land  of  palm, 
Such  is  this  glorious  land  of  ours. 


0  RAIN-WASHED  SKIES!     (1891.) 


O  rain-washed,  sapphire  skies !  how  fair 
With  beauty  infinite  are  ye! 
Heaven  lies  in  your  immensity, 
So  far,  so  bright  in  deeps  of  air 
We  cannot  see,  though  everywhere 
Its  glory  gleams,  its   soft   airs  blow, 
Till  earth  seems  heaven  here  below. 
Life  stirs  anew  beneath  the  soil, 
Birds  wing  their  flight  through  shining  s< 
Of  golden  sunbeams,  while  the  breeze 
Breathes  sweeter  than  Hesperides. 


A  RAINY  DAY.     (1901.) 

I  watch  the  clouds  that  float  the  sea  of  air, 

Their  grand  battalions  marshaled  everywhere, 

From  east  to  west  they  fill  the  mighty  deep, 

From  north  to  south  in  one  unbroken  sweep; 

And  lo!  the  mountains  lift  their  lofty  crests, 

On  which  the  snow  crown  of  the  Storm-King  rests. 

But  here  the  clouds  pour  down  their  pearly  showers. 

And  blossoms  smile  through   all  the  rain-filled  hours; 

And  velvet-footed,  silent  as  the  light, 

Viewless  as   air  unto  our  watching  sight, 

Growth  wends  her  way  and  touches  with  her  hand 

The  grassy  blades  that  in  the  fields  do  stand; 

Her  lips  are  pressed  on   budding  flow'r  and  tree, 

And  lo!  they  stir  in   noiseless  ecstacy; 

Something  divine  hath  touched  them,  too,  we  know; 

'Tis  God's  own  breath  and  wondrous  overflow 

Of  power  divine.     O  untold   mystery 

Of  earth's  unfolding  which  we  daily  see! 

Ine  nursing  sunshine  and  the  plenteous  rain 

God  gives  to  us,  but  they  would  be  in  vain 

Did   He  not  mingle  with  them  that  strange  thing 

Which  we  call  life,  from  which  all  growth  doth  spring. 


God  walks   on   earth   today,   not   less  than  when 
The  Christ  was  with  us,  seen  and  known  of  men; 
Than   when   He  lit   the  stars,  unrolled   the  sky, 
Cradled  the  seas,  lifted  mountains  high. 


AFTER  A  FEBRUARY  RAIN.     (1902.) 

The   boundless    air   is    still,   its   breath   is    sweet, 
The   earth   wears    garments   of  an   emerald   hue, 
The   skies   bend   over   us   infinitely   blue; 
We  hear  the  tinkle   of  Spring's   dancing   feet — 
The  laughing  breezes  hasten   forth  to   greet 
Her   coming.      From    golden   poppy   bells, 
In   tender  tones  harmoniously  swells 
Soft,  wind-born   music.     Lilies  lean, 
Holding  white   censers;   the   grasses   screen 
The   nun-like  violets   which  humbly   seek 
The  lowliest  places;   their  blue   eyes   peep 
Upward   in   gladness;   song-birds   sing, 
Or  sweep  the  air  with  their  soft,  feathered  wing, 
And  all  the  earth  is  filled  with  voice  of  Spring. 


WHEN  THE  RAIN  CAME. 

Oh,  what  were  the  birds  saying,  what  were  they  singing 

Out   in  the  woods   one  day, 

After  the  rain  had  come,  and  the  old  brown   Earth,  so 
dumb, 

Found  something  sweet  to  say? 

The  grasses  were  stirring,  with  their  soft  roots  purring 

Down  in  the  earth  so  dark, 
And  sure  in  the  wood,  where  I  listening  stood, 

A  robin  called,  hark !  hark ! 

And  his  mate  drew  near  and  bent  down  an  ear, 

Stirring   never   a   wing, 
As  he  leaned  and  listened  where  raindrops   glistened, 

E'en  forgetting  to  sing. 

Oh,  what  did  he  hear  on  that  morning  so  bright, 

When  the  Earth  was  awake 
With  the  kiss  of  the  Rain  on  mountain  and  plain 

Through   the   long   misty   night? 

Hark !  hark !  peep,  peep !  tweet,  tweet !  his  glad  little  feet 

Kept  time  with  the  song  in  his  breast, 
For  he  knew  that  the  rain  meant  harvests  again, 

And  plenty  of  gladness   and  rest. 

Then  from  the  tree's  crest  I  saw  the  bright  breast 

Of  an  oriole  flash. 
And  yellow  the  gold  on  the  feathery  fold 

Of  his   waistcoat   and   sash. 

And  a  crow  black  as  night  swept  down  on  rny  si;  lit, 

And  a  thrush  stirred  its  wings, 
And  a  lark  rising  high  to  the  deeps  of  the  sky 

Makes  a  path  as  it  sings. 


After  the  Rain. 


And   bobolink,  bobolink,  what  do  you   think? 

"Rain   is  coming,"  says  lie. 
"Yes,   yes,   tweet,   tweet!"   said    the   mockingbird    sweet. 

"And  I'm  as  glad  as  can  be." 

Then  the  dove  called  and  cooed  in  the  depths  of  the  wood, 

And   the  swallow  soared  high. 
And  a  little  brown  wren  twittered  softly  again 

'Neath  the  roof  of  the  sky. 

And  the  butterflies  came  like  blossoms  of  flame, 

And  the  spider  came  out 
With  a  velvet-like  tread,  and  gaily  he  spread 

His  bright  silver  about. 

And  the  striped-coated  bee  buzzed  on  merrily, 

And  a  rush  overhead — 
'Mid  the  curtain  of  leaves  on  old  forest  trees — 

Showed  the  squirrel  had  sped. 

Sing,  sing!  cried  the  robin,  as  he  started  a  song  which 
rippled  along, 

And  the  bulbul   drew  near, 
And  the  oriole  gay  sang  sweet  from  the  spray 

Where  the  wren  twittered  clear. 

Sing,  sing!  for  the  rain  is  coming  again. 

And  the  flowers  will  shine, 
Like  earth  stars  between  the  grasses  so  green. 

With  a  glory  divine. 

Then  with  voices  sweet  as  Summer  when   the  wild   bees 
murmur, 

Sang  the  birds  in  gladness, 
And  the  songs  they  poured  were  like  blessings  stored, 

Freeing  Earth   from  sadness. 

Then  bud  and  blossom  stirred,  as  happy  Nature  heard 

These  her  high   priests  singing; 
Roots  began  to  grow,  grasses  to  breathe  low. 

As  all  to  life  were  springing. 


AFTER  THE  RAIN.     (1895.) 

The  roses  breathe  to  me  today 

A  song  I  love  to  hear, 
And  other  lifting  blossoms  join 

And  fill  my  spirit's  ear. 

The  sky  above  us  leans  in  light 
That  floods  the  world  with  gold, 

And  all  the  whispering  breezes  pass 
With  graces  manifold. 

The  grand  old  mountains  mantled  are 
With  colors  wondrous  fair, 

Like  some  ethereal  visitants 
Formed  of  the  light  and  air. 

Out  of  the  rose's  heart  the  bee, 
With  wings  of  filmy  mould, 

Comes  buzzing  on  the  sunshine's  sea 
To  bathe  within  its  gold. 


So  warm,  so  liquid  soft  it  lies, 

This  pulseless,  winter  air, 
It  seems  as  Love  lay  breathing  low 

Within  its  bosom  fair. 

And  something  in  the  soul  of  Day 

Seems  kindred  unto  mine, 
While  Beauty  leans  from  leaf  and  tree 

Tn   forms  that  are  divine. 

Heaven's  threshold  is  not  very  far 

Beyond  such  days  as  this, 
And  angels  hidden  in  the  light 

Oft  touch  our  hands,  I  wis. 

II.     (1902.) 

There  is  a  soft,  glad  whisper  everywhere, 
Stirring  the  leaves  and  all  the  shining  air, 
A  whisper  soft  as  light,  as  sweet  as  flowers, 
Jiorn  of  the  coming  of  these  winter  showers. 

For  Joy   is  born  anew   in   Nature's  breast, 
She  laughs  in  gladness  on  the  hillside's  crest, 
And  in  the  valley  fair,  where  wakes  the  thrill 
Of  Growth's  sweet  music  which  will  not  be  still. 

The  long  months'  slumber  of  the  Grass  is  o'er, 
The  magic  rain  has  kissed  its  roots  once  more, 
It  is  awake,  and  soon  its  blades  will  spring 
Through  the  brown  soil— Earth's  emerald  covering. 

New  perfumes  soon  will  flood  the  air  like  light. 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  freshened  blossoms  bright 
Shall  pave  the  paths  we  tread,  and  Winter's  feet 
Be  newly  sandaled  here  with  flowers  sweet. 

Soon,   cloud-like,  shall   the   golden   poppies'   glow 
Cover  our  hills,  like  sunset's   overflow, 
With  radiant  beauty;  soon  the  shining  noons 
Be  bathed   in   seas  of  countless  rich   perfumes. 

And  all  the  birds  shall   unto   fresh  songs  wake. 
Drinking  the  glory  of  the  sun,  and  make 
A  jubilee  of  gladness  with  the  flowers 
Through  all  the  glorious,  rose-lidded  hours. 

The  rain-washed   skies   grow  brightly  blue  and  deep, 
Mirroring  immensity;   no  cloud-wings  sweep 
Th'  glorious  pathway  of  the  shining  Day, 
But   golden-winged  hours  pass  down  the  way. 

The  mountains  lift  their  purple  crests  on  high 
After  their  baptism,  and  the  blue  sky 
Reaches   its  arms  of  sunbeams  down  to  them, 
And    places   on    their  brows   its   diadem 

Of  wondrous   light  till  cliffs  and  canons  stand 
As  if  new-wrought  by  God's  almighty  hand, 
As  if  the  roots  of  stone  had  come  to  bear 
Pure  Light's  white  blossoms  in  that  upper  air. 

Yes,  Joy   is   born   anew   in   Nature's   breast, 
She  laughs  in  gladness  on  the  hillside's  crest, 
And  in  the  valleys  fair,  where  wakes  the  thrill 
Of  Growth's  sweet  music  which  will  not  be  still. 


The  Drouth  and  the  Rain. 


THE  RAIN     (1878.) 

Dimpled  and  sweet  the  fair  child  lay, 

His   golden   head   on  his   mother's  breast, 

And  his  great  sad  eves  in  wonder  stray, 
Watching  the  gloom  of  the  darkened  West; 

And  the  raindrops  patter  against  the  panes, 
The  first  sweet  rain  of  the  Autumn  days — 

Here  Summer  has  only  her  golden  rains, 
Rains  of  sunshine  and  shining  haze. 

And  only  such  clouds  as  the  sunset  flings 
Like   golden  banners   along  the  West, 

And  strange  to  the  child  whose  memory  holds 

Only  a  thought  of  fair,  bright  things- 
Sunlight   and  starlight,  and  golden  west- 
Is  the  Autumn  rain,  and  the  storm-cloud's  folds 

That  hide  like  a  pall  the  mountain's  crest. 


THE  RAIN.     (1893.) 

The  rain  falls  gently  and  the  green  Earth  smiles; 

Each  blade  of  grass,  each  budding  bush  and  tree 

Seems   full  of  gladness,  and  harmoniously 

Their  low-voiced  whisper  to  the  breeze  beguiles 

Our  thoughts.     They  seem   so  gracious  with  their  wad;. 

Of  waving  leaves,  like  many  hands  that  be 

Clapping  their  joyance,  while  breathing  free 

Of  new   life  brought   through   rain's  blest   ministry. 

I  think  there  is  a  soul  in  all  Earth's  things, 
And  speech,  did  we  but  understand   its  tones, 
A  psalm,  which  in  melodious  utterance  rings 
From  leaf  and  tree,  as  each  its  Maker  owns; 
And  mountains  are  Earth's  altars,  which  do  rise, 
Holding  Earth's  incense  to  the  waiting  skies. 


CLOUDS'   REST,   YOSEMITE. 


ountain, 


(Tanyon  an6 


"(jodlaid  His  fingers  on  the  mountain's  face. 


YOSEMITE.     (1882.) 

I  climb  her  heights  and  look  as  from  a  star 
Upon  a  lower  world;  the  clouds  seem  nearer 
Than  the  silent  vale  below; 

1   catch  not  e'en  the  murmur  of  the  river's  flow, 
And  the  bright  bird  that  circles  on  its  wing 
From  the  blue  air  around  me  seems  to  spring. 

Here  we  find   a  world  within  a  world;   charmed 
Deeps  and  flashing  waterfalls  that  seem  to 
Drop  from  the  o'erbending  blue,  and  dizzy 
Heights   which   the   sight    staggers;  and    mighty   walls 
Uprise  a  white  and  unstarred  firmament. 

IT.     (1899.) 

Amid   the   silence   of   thy   wondrous   heights 

Was  God's  own  hand  uplifted  in  that   far 

Distant  Past  when  Time  was  young  and  earth  lay 

On  the  breast  of  Chaos.     God  spake  and  it 

Was   done,  and   thy  sky-reaching  mounts   uprose — 

The  world's  grand  battlements— and  the  sleeping 

Vales  sprang  into  being,  while  the  river  leaped 

Into   the   silver   arms   of  motion   and 

Moved  with  ceaseless  anthems  onward  to  the 

Waiting  deep.     O  wilderness  of  mountains! 

Ye  do   seem   but   half  of  earth   with   your  proud 

Crests   pillowed   amid   the  stars,   Orion's 

Hand  upon  your  rocky   foreheads,  and  the 

Sky  binding  them   with  its  soft  blue,  while  the 

Sunbeams,  lying  upon  them  like  a  crown, 

Wrap  them  in  light  and  beauty.     But  mine  eyes, 

Filled   with   reverent  wonder,  see  temples 

Here,  such  as  man's  weak  hand  hath  never  reared, 

Wrought   by   th'   chisel   of  Omnipotence   when 

He,  with  arm  uplift,  sundered  the  rocks  and 

Carved  in  this  wilderness  His  cathedral 

Mounts,  with  spires  and  mighty   architraves 

And  rounded  domes  thousands  of  feet  upraised 

Into  th'  high  heavens,  'round  which  forever 

The  currents  of  the  upper  air  flow  in 

Strong  tides  changeless  as  Time.     Yosemite, 

Parent    of   wonders !      The   leap    of   thy    grand 

Waterfalls   beggars   all   speech   to   tell.     They 

Are  girt  with  rainbows  and  garmented  with 

Mist,   as  if  the   clouds  muffled   their   forms   while 

Sunbeams  paved  their  path  with  glory,  and  they 

Were  hung   as   veils    for   infinite   brightness. 

They  voice  the  eternal   with  their   full  lips 

Of  mighty  waters,  and  the  rocks  tremble 

As  they  hear,  and   forest  trees  bend  low  to 

Catch  the  baptism.     Afar  the  black  lips 

Of  the  dead  volcanic  craters  yawn,  as 

If  Hell  her  mouth  had  opened  in  the  dead 

Past,  until  God  had  closed  its  jaws  and  bade 

Its  fires  to  cease,  and  made  Grandeur  walk  where 


Once  Destruction  trod  and  poured   its  lava 

Fires.     How  rises  proud  El  Capitan  like 

Rocky  firmament  above  the  flowing 

Merced's  waves,  his  feet  lashed  by  their  foam,  and 

His  fir-crowned  crest  touching  the  holy  stars. 

Near  him  thy  Falls,  with  rainbows  round  their  feet, 

Leap   from  the  skies  to  earth  with  thunderous 

Rush,  as  they  were  gods  outspringing  space,  and 

Playing  with  the  winds  which  wander  with  them. 

Thy  grand  Half  Dome,  six  thousand  feet  uplift 

Above  the  river's  bed,  stands  like  a  gateway 

To  the  far-off  skies,  and  it  hears  the  rush 

Of  worlds   circling  through   space,   and   looks   upon 

The    birthplace    of   the    winds,    and   thrusts    its    arm 

Into  the  chambers  of  the  clouds,  touching 

The  lightnings  and  watching  the  thunders  roll. 

Thy  Sentinel   Rock  stands   guard  as   ages 

Pass,  and  th'  mighty  forests  round  his  shoulders 

Mantle  him  with  green,  while  afar  he  looks 

Into  a  world-wilderness  of  peaks.     On 

Thy  proud   bosom   lies   thy   wondrous   jewel, 

Fair  Mirror  Lake,  th'  diamond  of  waters, 

Its  setting  Granite  Domes  and  Royal  Arches, 

Which  the  sun  envelops  with  his  glory. 

Thy  trees  are  giants  of  their  kind — fingers 

Up-pointing  to  thy  wondrous  heights,  which  God 

Has  made  the  marvel  of  the  world. 

III.  (1901.) 

God  laid  His  fingers  on  the  mountain's  face, 

Its  granite  lips  were  opened  in  His  praise;          ^/ 

His  footsteps  trod  the  mighty  canon  ways, 

And  lo!  the  streams  leapt  singing  from  their  place 

On  high  Sierra's  crest  unto  the  valley's  floor, 

Where  sound  their  anthems  now   forevermore. 

How  beam  the  stars  from  their  high  places  down! 

The  winds  with  silver  feet  thy  waters  tread; 

Like  great  high  priests  the  cedars  overhead 

Cast  their  sweet  incense  where  their  branches  crown 

Thy  lofty  heights,  and  golden  sunbeams  pour 

Their  glad  Te  Deums  out  forevermore. 

Solemn  and  vast  thy  mighty  Domes  do  stand, 

Their   faces  lifted   to   the  stars   and   sun, 

And   sometimes   like  a   fleecy   banner   flung 

By  some  vast   Titan's  ever-viewless  hand, 

Clouds  stream  from  their  bald  foreheads,  till  we  see 

The  lightning  alphabet  of  Deity. 

IV.  (1902.) 

Temple  of  grandeur,  with  thy  granite  heights 
Touching  the  stars,  while  the  winds  do  brush  their 
Foreheads  and  whisper  the  secrets  of  the 
Starry  skies  into  their  ears.     Great   forests, 
With  giant   trees,  sweep  the  wide  distance  o'er 


65 


Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge. 


Thee;  illimitable  they  seem  as  space, 

And  grand  as  they  were  pillars  of  old  Time 

On  which  the  far  skies  lean,  strong  in  the  strength 

Of  centuries.     How   wondrous   thy  mighty 

Falls,  leaping  like  world-old  Titans   from  the 

Heights,  and  thy  vast  Domes  and  Spires,  carved  from  the 

Eternal  rocks  when  Time  was  young.     Thy  sleeping 

Lakes  are  a  bright  mirror  for  th'  world  about 

Them,  and  the  fair  Merced— "River  of  Mercy"— 

Rolls  like  a  liquid  song  along  its  way, 

Through  thy  green  valley,  cradled  in  sunshine. 

God  has  woven   for  thee  a  crown  of  sunbeams, 

And   thy  tall  trees   stand   catching   the   sunlight, 

1111  they  seem  at  times  like  molten  gold  poured 

Into  Nature's  vast  alembic,  to  be 

Shaped   at  her  will   into  a   priceless 

Diadem   of  brightness.     Silver   firs   and 

Mighty  cedars  wave  their  boughs  above  thy 

Lofty  walls,  glorious   in  beauty,   and 

Thy  Sentinel  Rock  stands  moveless,  fronting 

The  ages  and  mocking  at  Change.     Thy  vast 

Domes  seem  hung  in  air,  kindred  with  sun  and 

Stars,  companioned  by  the  clouds,  at  home  with 

Storm  and  tempest,  when  they  rave  above  the 

Earth,  and,  lightning-shod,  traverse  the  broad  skies 

Unhindered.     The  rainbow  arches  itself 

In   glory   round   thy    falls,   and    color   lights 

Their  misty  spray  until  it  seemeth  like 

Some  wondrous  blossom  of  the  shining  air 

Laid  on  the  breast  of  Day.     Thou  art  indeed 

The  signet  of  Omnipotence,  and  His 

Alphabet  with  which   He  writes  th'  glorious 

Iliads  of  His  eternal  power. 

V.     (1903.) 

Here  Nature  holds  herself  in  regnant  state, 

And  sits  a  queen  with  mountains   for  her  crown; 

Her  robes  are  royal,  jeweled  with  bright  flow'rs, 

Her  crystal  waterfalls  look  as  they  leaped 

From  the   far  heavens  with  bright  rainbows  wreathed 

About  their  feet  and  on  their  forehead's  front, 

When  the  sun  kisses  their  face  and  pours  on 

Them  a  baptism  of  light,  glorious 

In  beauty.     The  Valley's   granite  walls   rise, 

Like  a  rocky  firmament,  thousands  of 

Feet  above  its  emerald  floor,  and  the 

Tall  pines  and  cedars  growing  on  their  crests 

Seem  to  brush  the  skies  and  lay  their  fingers 

On  the  stars.     The  anthem  of  its  mighty 

Waters  fills  all  the  centuries  with  its 

LTnceasing  harmony,  thundering  of 

Power.     Here  we  see  Omnipotence  has 

Chiseled   vastness,   shaping  the   rocks  into 

Glorious  cathedral  heights  on  which  the 

Sun   lays  his   first   morning  beam   and   his   last 

Kiss  at  evening.     They  front  th'  mighty  distances, 

And  look  afar  through  space,  while  their  high  crests 

Are  lift  above  the  clouds.     Kindred  are  they 

With  bending  skies  and   circling  planets,  and 

The  rolling  thunders  pour  mighty  voices  into 


Their  ears  in  tones  that  shake  the  very  stars. 
How  rise  the  mighty  cedars  on  their  sides, 
Like  columns   to  uphold  the   far,  star-fraught 
Firmament,   monarchs   of  trees,   great   giant 
Titans,  baffling  the  winds  with  their  unbending 
Majesty.     Yosemite!     No  words  can 
Paint  its  wonders.     It  is  a  thought  of  God, 
So   marvelous   that   human   speech    feels   its 
Own   feebleness,  its  great  poverty  of 
Utterance,  and  is  still  with  rev'rent  awe. 


VI. 


O  those  far  heights  which  lie  beneath  the  stars! 

The  clouds  sweep  round  them  like  a  misty  veil. 

O'er  flowery  slopes  we  climbed,  through   forest  bars, 

Through  floods  of  sunshine  up  the  dizzy  trail, 

Until  we  reached  their  summits.     Standing  there, 

We  looked  adown,  as  from  a  planet's  edge, 

On  the  far  lower  world— a  world  it  seemed  where 

Soul  was  dead,  and  where,  pinned  down  by  wedge 

Of  mighty  peaks,  motion  had   died— 

A  world  drowned  in  the  sunshine,  steeped  in  quiet  rest, 

Where  never  the  Wind's  swift  steeds  might  stride. 

Or  the  soft  breezes  stir  the  river's  breast. 

MORNING  IN  THE  YOSEMITE.     (1882.) 

Oh,   I  have  lain  and  watched  the  dawn   grow  clear, 

Have  seen   from  out  the  shadows  lift  his  front 
Like  the  foundations  of  some  other  sphere, 

Grand,   granite-walled  El  Capitan,  his  head 
Wearing  the  jeweled  sunlight,  while  his  sides 

Wore  tints  of  darkness  and  the  Dawn,  and  still  dead 
Blackness  lay  upon  the  river's  flowing  tides 

Which  through  the  centuries  have  laved  his  feet; 
And  suddenly,  as  if  the  angel  of  the  Dawn 

Had   fanned  the  air  with  his  soft,  roseate  wings, 
The  brooding  stillness  of  the  woods  is  gone, 

And  from  the  upper  deeps  at  once  there  springs 
A  tremulousness  that  stirs  the  glossy  leaves 

Which  through  the  night  had  moveless  hung  and  slept, 

And  sudden  sunlight  rich  mosaics  weaves 
In  gold  and  emerald  where  its  beams  have  crept; 

And  shadowed  columns  stretch  along  the  ground,. 
Cast  by  the  trees  that  face  the  glowing  East, 

Carved  by  the  sunlight  without  tool  or  sound. 
The  air  is  full  of  odors,  the  eyes  feast 

On  dewy  buds  and  blossoms  and  the  ear 
Is  steeped  in  song;  amid  the  giant  trees 

Sit  the  bird  choirs,  their  symphonies  you  hear 
More  sweet  than  the  old  masters'  harmonies; 

And  veiled   in  mystic  beauty,  shining  clear 
In  silvery  brightiiess,  jeweled  with  the  light, 

And  flashing  diamonds,  its  feet  wrapped  round 
With   rainbows   and   soft  spray  of  misty  white, 

Where  earth  and  sky  are  wedded,  heaven  drops  clown 
Its  Bridal  Veil,  and  the  valley's  crown, 

Like  some  gigantic  priest  of  other  days 
Grown  through  the  centuries,  with  head  uplift, 

Gazes  with  far  eyes  into  the  clasping  skies — 


On  Eagle  Point- 


Yosetnite. 


The  grand  Half  Dome.     Upon  its  granite  cliff, 

Down-shooting  from  the  Cloud's  Rest  lofty  rise, 
Shines  the  first  golden  arrow  of  the  Dawn, 

Mirrored   in   beauty   in   the  lake  below. 
And  with  keen  eye,  watching  the  face  of  Morn, 

The  mighty  offspring  of  some  earthquake's  throe, 
1  he  moveless  Sentinel  with  dome  upreared, 

And  bared  brow,  white  as  the  Winter's  snow, 
Stands  lone,  transfigured  on   the  heights — his  beard 

The  branches  of  the  pines  which  glow 
Like  some  old  god's  in  the  effulgent   light. 

Far  off  the  vast  Sierra's  peaks  arise 
A   wilderness  of  grand,   majestic   heights, 

Their  shining  crests  within  the  azure  skies, 
With  the  rich  aureole  of  the  sunrise  lights 

Resting  upon  them    like  a  radiant  crown. 
The  grand  old  Domes,  the  pillars  ol  the  air, 

Look  on  the  columned  forests  down, 
Their  rounded  summits  standing  lonely  there — 
The  valley's  mighty  altars  lit  with  fire. 
And  now  the  sun  fills  all  the  stream  with  gold, 

Bridging  it  with  sunbeams  as  it   rises  higher; 
It   casts  its  shining  spears  into  the  old 

White   waterfalls — the  shadows   flee   away, 
And  stands  complete  the  miracle  of  Day. 

9i>V- 
ON  EAGLE  POINT— YOSEMITE.     (1885.) 

The  calm  sweet  Night  was  overhead. 

The  skies  were   full  of  stars  which  shed. 

With  the  bright  silver  of  the  fair  full   Moon, 

A    rain    of    radiance   through    the   fir-tree   boughs. 

The  wonderful  glory  of  that  midnight  IKXMI 

Killed  the  wide  distance  and  lit  up  the  brows 

Of  peaks,  snow-clad,  eternal  in  the  calm 

Of   upper   skies;  clouds  may   touch 

Their   time-old    shoulders,    and    tempests    ride 

With  the  sharp   ploughs  of  whirlwinds  down  their  side; 

But  their  bald  summits  stand   forever  there 

In  the  clear  blue  of  the  unclouded  air, 

Between   the  clouds  and   Heaven  uplifted  high", 

Kindred  with  sun  and  moon  and  starlit  sky. 

APPROACHING  THE  YOSEMITE.     (1899.) 
Like  rock-built  firmament  uprose  the  heights 
As  we  drew  near  the  valley's  open'  door, 
Fronting   the   West.     The   waters   leapt   downward 
Tn   white-robed  cataracts,  as   if  the  sky 
Had  opened  wide  and  thrust  its  foamy  tongues 
Oi   mist  within   the  world.     Vast   granite  walls, 
Born  from  the  womb  of    Time,  were  kindred  with 
The  stars  which  hid   themselves  amid  their  high 
Forest   crowns,  that   seemed   to   rest   against   the 
Leaning  heavens.     The  swift   river  ran  as 
ff  its  voice  were  hushed  in  its  deep  flow  of 
Snow-fed  waters.     The  fair  valley  slept  in 
Shadows,  its  head  upon  the  Sunset's  lap. 
An   aureole  of  light   on  its  higher 
Peaks,  as  if  God's  finger  touched  them  and  blazed 
Forth    in   shining   glory.     Like  curtain    for 
Kternity  the  forest  stretched  away 
Far  as  our  vision  reached,  and  the  rockv 


Pinnacles   of   peaks,   where  dead   volcanoes 

Slumbered  in  the  arms  of  bygone  ages, 

Which  had   nursed  their  fires  and  seen  them  darken, 

Rose  in  the  air,  vast,  gray  and  frowning  as 

They  were  captives  of  those  upper  heavens, 

Their  feet  earth-chained,  their  heads  pierced  with  a  barb 

Of  shining  light.     How  little  seemed  Today, 

How  like  an  atom  Man,  a  speck  beneath 

Those  mountain  heights  twin  with  the  earth  and  sky. 

BOGOSLOV.* 

The  great  ship  plowed  the  pathless  seas, 
The  night   was   round  us  dim  and  dark. 

And  all  that  Northland's  mysteries 

Seemed  closing  round  our  moving  bark. 

The  stars  o'erhead  were  strange  and  new, 
The    land    a    lonely    land    and    drear, 

No  cities  rose  upon  our  view, 
No  voice  but  the  sea's  voice  we  hear. 

Around  us  lay  an  island  world, 

Rock-ribbed    and    frowning  vast   and  cold; 

Mighty   the   waters   that   were  hurled 
From  the  gray,  sullen  heights  so  old. 

On,  on,  until  the  morning  woke, 

And  the  sun  rose  in  smiling  mood, 
And   round   our  ship   the   great   waves   broke — 

The  mighty  pulse  of  Solitude. 

Afar  a   lofty   mountain   rose, 

A   giant  'mid  the  mountains  there, 
Mantled    in    its   eternal   snows, 

Its    head    within    the    frozen    air. 

A  burning  mountain-smoke  uprose, 
And  from  its  yawning  crater  leaped 

In  awful  blackness  as  Night's  heart 
Were  in  its  vast  alembic  steeped. 

Across  the  blue  its  train  outspread, 
Veiling  the   sunlight,   and   the   world, 

Like  the  wide,  blackened   sky  o'erhead, 

Seemed    dumb    with    terror;  daylight     furled 

Her  robes  around  her,  pine-trees  bowed 
Within  the  wild  wind's  frenzied  clasp. 

And  the  mad  billows  roared  aloud, 
And  leaped  and  leaped  as  if  the  vast 

Great  sea  in  terror  sought  to  find 

A  refuge  from  the  mountain's  wrath; 

Mingled  with  bellows  of  the  wind 
Its  wild  waves  sped  along  our  path. 

Oh,  that  far  world,  so  near  the  Pole, 
Seems  like  the  ghost  of  all  we  dread, 

Where  terror  flees  and  finds  its  goal, 
And  Nature's  tender  soul  is  dead. 

•Word  of  God.  This  Island  of  Bogoslov.  in  the  DorlnR  Sea, 
north  of  the  Aleutian  chain,  was  thrown  up  from  the  depths 
of  the  ocean  years  ago,  and  from  its  volcano  fire  and  smoke 
spouted,  visible  for  miles  at  sea. 


67 


Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge. 


OLD  BALDY. 

(Mt.  San  Antonio,  1884.) 

Uplifted  to  the  skies  like  some  great  giant 
Monarch,  there  he  stands,  Time's  elder  brother; 
Touching  hi?  lordly  crest,  the  fair  skies  bend 
To  kiss  his  furrowed  cheek,  while  Winter  with 
His    frozen    fingers   weaves   his   snow-crown, 
Even  while  Summer,  with  her  shining  sheen 
Of  golden  sunbeams,  wraps  him  round  and  his 
Feet   sandals  with  emeralds,   and  along 
His   garment's  hem   strings  dewy  pearls   and  flowers. 
The  clouds  lean  down  to  rest  upon  his  shoulders, 
And  the  lone  eagle,  cutting  the  air  with 
His  wide  wings,  upon  his  rock-ribbed  sides 
Guards  his  young  nestlings.     The  mysteries  of 
The  air  are  his,  and  all  the  secrets  of 
The  thunder's  voice  into  his  stony  ear 
Are  poured,  while  his  evelids.  flash  with  lightnings. 
World  calleth  unto  world  through  all  the  wide 
Starry    space,    and    moveless    in   his    sphynx-like 
Silence  he  faces  the  centuries,  and 
Makes   no   sign.     And   yet  he  knows 
Of  vanished   races,  and  the  history 
Of  the  sun-browned   generations  who  have 
Come  and  gone,  watching  his  royal  splendor. 
And  he  has  felt  the  clutch  of  mumbling  earth- 
Quakes,  and  the  breath  of  wild  convulsions;  yet 
With  his  gaze  turned  heavenward,  not  a  pulse 
Of  fear  has  stirred  this  monarch  sentinel  of  Time. 


UPWARD  TO  SAN  ANTONIO'S  CREST. 

Climbing  with  tireless  feet,  each  step  uplifting 
To  the  upper  air,  mountains  on  mountains 
Rise  before,  each  one  a  pyramidal 
Height  thrusting  broad  shoulders  into  the  cloud. 
Land  of  the  Skies !  Nature's  soft  touch  upon 
The  heights  is  seen  in  forest  patches  and 
Shimmering,  dew-wet  chaparral,  in  beds 
Of  graceful  lichens,  and  in  the  incense- 
Breathing  flowers,  which  are  the  Summer's  smile, 
And  in  the  trailing  mosses,  hung  like 
Shadowy,  waving  banners  from  the  trees. 
Far  down  there  is  the  flash  of  waters,  with 
Their  crystal   feet   leaping  amid   the  rocks, 
Or  lying  in  still  pools,  with  the  sky  down- 
Looking  as  to  see  its  face  hid  in  their 
Shining   breast.     The   canons,  the   great  lips   of 
The  hills,  are  parted,  and  their  beards  of  pine 
Are  shapely,  but  their  wide,  Titan  throats  are 
Granite  lined — their  sides  stony  as  sphynxes. 
That  lower  world,  how  far  away  it  lies ! 

Up  and  still  up,  until  'twould  seem  you  might 
Pluck  from  the  sky  a  star  and  slip  it  for 
A  jewel  on  your  finger  there,  or  from 
The  sinking  sun  steal  the  gold  of  slanting 
Rays  upshining  at  your  feet.     The  great  world 
Lies  far  below  in  silence.     Like  an 


Inland  sea  the  mighty  desert  stretches, 

And  the  wide,  fertile  plains,  hushed  by  old 

Ocean's  lullaby,  dream  in  their  tropic 

Calm,  all  orchard-dotted,  vineyard-clad,  and 

City-crowned.     Standing  upon  this  lofty 

Mountain's  crest,  you  feel  as  if  upon  the 

Watch-tower  of  the  world,  and  as  if  there 

Old  Time  might  come  and  sit  with  you,  and  in 

Your   ear  tell   all  the  secrets  of  the 

Centuries.     Ten  thousand  feet  below  the 

Ocean  lies,  and  men  like  flies  slip  through  the 

Hazy  distance.     Like  Moses  in  the  mount, 

Infinity  o'ershadows  you,  as  when 

He   talked  with   God,  while  there  you   stand,   as 

Leaning   from  a  planet's  edge  to  gaze  upon  the  world. 


MOUNT  WILSON.     (1895.) 

Men  love  thee  well— they  love  thy  silent  heights, 
Where  the  stars  nestle  and  the  sun  shines  clear, 
And  the  far  skies  seem  stooping  downward,  near 

To  Earth's  heart  with  all  its  hushed  delights. 

Up  through  the  deeps  of  air,  as  on  a  thread 

Hung  'twixt  the  earth  and  stars,  we  climb  the  steeps 
Of  thy  trailed  sides,  with  the  vast  canoned  deeps, 

E'en  like  another  world  below  us  spread. 

The  air  hangs   full  of  stillness.     Solitude 
Broods  like  a  spirit;  not  a  thread  of  sound 
Runs  through  the  silences  that  hedrre  thee  round, 

Save  the  sweet  cadence  of  the  multitude 

Of   happy   birds,   who,   music-throated,   fill 
The  clear,  sweet  air  with  a  glad  rain  of  song, 
And  through  the  wooded  covert  sweep  along 

Thin,  silvery  tunes  the  insect  armies  trill. 

But  man's  world  moves  thee  not,  though  bright  and  fair, 
Moored  in  the  sunshine  and  spellbound  it  lies, 
All    garmented   with   summer   harvestries, 

And  wrapped  in  gold  of  the  glad  summer  air. 

Though  to  thy  crest  Earth's  many  lovers  come, 
And  sit  between  thy  cedars  and  the  stars, 
To    breathe   thy    spicy    air   where    nothing    mars 

The  loveliness  of  Earth  in  this  sweet  home 

Of  Nature,  where  the  silent  hours  take  flight, 
Winged   with   the  beauty   of  the   changing   day, 
And   heaven  seems  breathing  where   the  spiced  winds 
play, 

And  thousand  blossoms  open  to  the  light. 

Oh,  well  I  love  to  come  to  thee  and  climb 
As  'twere  some  Jacob's  ladder  to  thy  crest, 
And  pillowed  on  thy  mighty  bosom  rest, 

Bound  by  thy  spell,  forgetting  care  and  time. 


68 


Siinttet  on  Mt. 


SUNSET  ON  MX.  LOWE.     (1895.) 

Like  a  thin  veil  upon  the  dreaming  plain 

Lie  golden  lights  and  hues  of  violet; 

The  hours  grow  still  as  spirits,  but  amain, 

With  rosy  fingers  in  soft  colors  set, 

Draw  wondrous  pictures  on  the  wide  Earth's  floor. 

Touching  with  rose  the  fields  of  green  and  brown, 

Sifting  the  opalescent   glory  down 

On  hill  and  vale  and  steeple-guarded  town. 

Unfolding  like  a  flower,  the  rosy  light 

Spreads  o'er  the  valley,  o'er  the  mountain's  crest, 

And  clouds  of  fire  lie  prone  within  the  West, 

LIKC  watching  gods  guarding  the  still  hours'  flight. 

The  many  shadows  seem  like  winged  things 

Hunting  the  jeweled  stars  that   slowly  break 

From  the  far,  high  towers  of  Night  and  take 

Earth  willing  captive  till  the  glad  Dawn's  wake. 

And  by  and  by,  as  darkness  draws  its  veil, 

And   in   its   arms   invisible   doth    fold 

The  faces  of  glad  flowers,  the  wide  dale, 

The  many  hills  and  the  grand  mountains  old, 

From  this  high  mount  we  dwellers  seem  to  lean 

O'er  diamond-paved   cities   which   do   gleam 

Warm  with  the  sparkle  of  electric  fire 

Like  some  glad  vision  of  the  soul's  desire. 

Enchanted  Silence  round  about  us  lies, 

Broken  but  by  the  sweet  antiphonies 

Of  murmuring  insects,  which  dream  day  has  come 

As  the  great  Search-Light  throws  its  brilliant  beams 

Over  the  valleys,  over  mountain  heights; 

Like  some  vast  flying  comet  whose  light  streams 

Amid  the  stars,  so  overflames  its  light 

Through  the  still  vastness  of  the  brooding  Night, 

And  far  above  us  does  a  long  line  run, 

Fed  by  electric  fire,  the  hidden  force 

Bearing  "white  chariots,"  one  by  one, 

A  silent  steed  along  their  mountain  course. 

The  great  rent  rocks  stand  as  if  hushed  with  awe, 

Open   their  world-old   sides   to  let   us   pass, 

And  the  high  peaks  look  skyward  as  to  ask 

How  man  hath  tamed  the  awful  lightning's  force. 

The  woods,  roused   from  their  sleep  of  centuries, 

On  those  far  peaks  that  lean  against  the  sky, 

Swept  by  Dawn's  lights  and  Sunset's  mysteries, 

Shiver  with  wonder  that  man  dares  to  try 

Heaven's  battlements.     The  vast  Canon's  gaze 

Is  upward  lifted,  as  in  dumb  amaze 

That  man  is  there  along  those  heaven-high  ways, 

Conqueror  of  all,   king  of  their   silences. 

Huge-browed,  the  mountains  look  with  solemn  face. 

Yet  beckoning  glance,  as  if  they  bade  men  come 

Up  to  their  summits,  knowing  their  dumb  might, 

Vast  though  it  be,  is  even  like  the  slight 

Touch  of  a  baby's  finger,  as  in  place 

Of  mind-enlightnened  effort  which  can  hew 

A  highway  starward,  tear  earth's  bowels  through. 

And  mould  the  heights  to  service  strange  and  new. 


MOUNT  SAN  BERNARDINO. 
(11,500  feet  high.) 

O   battlemented  height!  O'er  thee  God   bends 

From  heaven  to  touch  thee  with  His  finger, 

And  pour   His  air  around  thee,  filled   with  the 

Glory    of   the    sunlight.     Time    leans    from    thy 

High  ramparts  and  looks  on  Earth,  and,  touching 

Thy  rock-ribbed   sides,  dreams  of  eternal  years 

Of    imperishable    grandeur.     Anchored 

In  granite,  and  with  rock-hewn  forehead  reared 

Unto  the  skies,   thy  head   cloud-pillowed   and 

Heaven-crowned,  he  deems  thou  canst  not  perish. 

The  winds  thou  boldest  as  thy  servants  with 

Which  to  plow  the  air,  or  sweep  its  awful 

Stillness.     Thou   lookest   on   the  stars  and  dost 

Hear  God  call  them  by  their  names.     Thou  knowest 

The  secret  of  the  thunder,  the  mad  bellowing 

Of  the  winter  tempest,  the  music  of 

The  summer  breeze  wooing  thy  forest's  heart, 

Soothing  its  cradled   flowers,  and  whisp'ring 

With  the  sunshine.     The   glory  of  the  sunset 

Mantles  thy  shoulders,  and  the  golden  dawns 

Stand  velvet-footed  on  thy  crest,  watching 

The  world's  waking.     Time  from  thy  bold  summit 

Has  watched  generations  pass  and  found  thee 

Changeless.     Races   have   vanished    at    thy    feet, 

And  earth  becomes  their  sepulcher;  but   thou 

Still  dost  wear  the  unwrinkled  face  of  youth, 

Its  emerald  garments  and  its  silver 

Girdling  streams,  which  laugh  with  thee  in  gladness 

And   full-rhythmed  joy.     The  vast  sun-warmed  plains 

Dream  at  thy  feet,  with  Summer  nestling  in 

Their  heart,  and  look  to  thee  in  reverence, 

Worshiping  thy  might.     The  soft  mists,  with  arms 

Invisible,  wrap  thee  in  beauty  and 

Veil  thy  ruggedness  in  ethereal 

Charms,  until  our  sight  might  hold  thee  some  great 

God  chained  in  enchanted  silence,  crowned  with 

Power  and  loveliness,  and  almost  dream 

Even  thy  rocky  heart  warm  with  human 

Tenderness.     But  when  clouds  gather  on  thy 

Awful  front,  and  lightnings  flash  beneath  thy 

Stormy  lids,  and  like  some  mighty  Thor  thou 

Thunderest,  then  thou  art  terrible, 

And  we  are  glad  to  be  cradled  on  the 

Summer  plains,  and  look  at  thee  from  far,  clasped 

To  the  tropic  valley's  ever  tender  breast. 

OUR  MOUNTS  OF  SNOW.    (1897.) 

O  our  mountain  world  of  snow, 
Brooding  over  Summer  so! 
White  as  Time's  old  hoary  front, 
As  if  ye  had  not  been  wont 
To  your  nursing  breasts  to  fold 
Tropic  bloom,  and  there  to  hold- 
Since  the  days  when  Time  yas  young, 
And  his  blossoms  round  you  clung— 
Summer    sounds    and    summer    dreams, 
'Mid  laughter  of  your  running  streams. 


69 


Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge. 


Looking,  scarce  we  know  your  face, 
Missing    all    of    Summer's    grace; 
White  and  vast  as  Titans  bold, 
With   your   shining   lances   cold, 
Speared    with    frost    ye   stand    on   high. 
Robed  with  snow  'neath   Summer's  sky. 
At  your  feet  is  Summer's  calm, 
Orange  bloom  and  waving  palm, 
Song  of  birds  and  scent  of  flowers, 
And  the  gold  of  sunlit  hours. 

Ye  are  grand,  O  mounts  of  snow, 
Neath  our  blue  skies'  tropic  glow! 
Grand  as  if  the  foot  of  God 
Had  passed  o'er  you  whitely  shod, 
And  his  mantle  trailed  a  space, 
Left  its  shadow  on  your  face. 
But  the  Sun,  with  burning  eye, 
Smiles  as  if  in   mockery; 
The  white  glory  melts,  and  lo! 
Vanished    are   our   mounts    of   snow. 


MOUNT  WILSON.     (1898.) 

Amid  the  mighty  forest  of  high  peaks, 

From  whose  grand  crests  the  tall  pines  pierce  the  sky 

Like  Titan  lances,  cleaving  the  blue  asunder, 

Thou  liftest  thy  bold  front,  O  monarch  mount ! 

Thy  vast  sides  ribbed  with  cloven  canons, 

Whose  deeps  seem  earth-emboweling.     Forests 

Hide  in   them   as   playthings   for  the  wind,   and 

Crystal-footed   streams  leap   amid  rocks, 

As  answering  to  the   far-oif  trumpet 

Call  of  the  great  sea.     Climbing  unto  thy 

Summit,  the  world  lies  at  our  feet.     Valleys 

And  lower  hills,  and  sea-washed  shore,  and  the 

Girdling  rivers,  with   shining   faces  lifted 

To  the  Sun;  the  man-built  cities  looking 

Like  pigmy  toys;  the  long  line  of  smoke  from 

Out  the  iron  throat  of  the  swift-moving 

Engine,  like  some  white  banner  over  the 

Valleys  flung.     How  small  I  feel !  How  like  an 

Atom  dropped  into  the  wide  space  about 

Me,  as  I  stand  upon  thy  crest  and  view 

The  vast  encircling'  land.     Behind  thee,  scattered, 

Lies  the  wide  and  mighty  wilderness  of 

Peaks,  rising  in  solemn  grandeur  above 

Old  Time's  gigantic  canons,  speaking  with 

Sublimest   tongues   of  infinite   power. 

The  unfettered  winds  hide  thee,  and  sing  in 

Whispering  breezes  their  lullabies  unto 

The  flowers,  or   pour  their   fuller   anthems, 

While  rocking  the  mighty  pines,  as  cradling 

Them  within  thetr  tireless  arms.     And  grand  the 

Oratorios  poured  by  voice  of  many 

Waters  which  leap  singing  from  the  vast  heights 

With  rainbows  round  their  feet  and  upon  their 

Shining  foreheads.     O    thou  mount  of  wonders ! 

Behind  thee  broodeth  Solitude,  old  as 

The  world,  and  Nature's  face  is  still  untouched 


By  human  fingers.     The  wilderness  is 

There,  and  Nature  wears  her  crest  of  rocky 

Pinnacles   and  the  wild  beauty  of  her 

Forest  tangles.     Man  hath  not  put   upon 

Her  his  strong  fetters,  nor  sought  to  tame  her 

Spirit.     But  far  beneath  thy  front  we  see 

Where  man  hath  walked,  and  dimpled  the  face  of 

Nature  with  his  works,  making  the  vales  smile 

With  their  orchard  bloom  and  gleam  brightly  with 

The   emerald    of   their   vineyards.     Green    and 

Fair  lie  the  vast  fields  of  wheat  within  their 

Season,  billowed  in  shining  beauty  like 

The  sea  when  sweep  the  Wind's  wings  o'er  their  breast. 

And  man's  world  lies  cradled,  looking  up   to  thee, 

Great  priest  of  Nature,  lift  above  the  clouds, 

And  holding  nightly  commune  with  the  stars. 


ON  FAR  SIERRA  HEIGHTS.     (1900.) 

I  stood  beneath  the  blue  and  bending  skies, 

Where  glorious  Sierra  heights  arise; 

How  grand  is  Nature  there,  how  vast,  elate, 

Majestic   in   her   solitary   state. 

Man  is  afar,  and  there  the  mountains  breathe, 

Their  lips  star-touched,  and  the  wild  winds  do  wreathe 

Clouds  round  their  foreheads,  while  the  giant  trees, 

Like  singing  Titans,   pour  their  symphonies. 

These  world-high   chambers   of   earth's   upper   air, 
Roofed  by  the  skies,  how  gloriously  fair! 
Night  brings  her  stars  and  sets  them  in  her  sky 
While  far  below  us  does  heav'n's  cloudland  lie. 
The  lips  of  Silence  on  the  heights  are  pressed, 
And  Sound  is  pillowed  upon  Nature's  breast; 
The  winds  are  hushed,  and  lo!  we  seem  to  be 
Alone  with  Time  and  with  the  Deitv. 


THE  SIERRA  MADRE. 
(As  Viewed  From  Pasadena.) 

0  grand  old  mountains !  the  valley's  walled 
Sierras,   to  which   the  infinite   skies 

Do  whisper,  and  on  whose  lofty  crests  the 
Oratorios  of  the  winds  are  heard, 

Breathed  in  the  ears  of  stars,  o'er  thy  broad  shoulders 
The  clouds  rest  like  a  mantle,  and  the  fogs 
Press  their  cool,  misty  lips  at  dawn  upon 
Thy  rocky  foreheads.     And  the  sunshine,  how 
It  loves  thy  lofty  heights,  making  thy  heaven- 
Reaching  walls   resplendent   with  its  brightness. 

1  have  seen  them  stand  as  if  God's  robes  were 
Round  them,  shining  like  sapphire  and  like 
Amethyst,  with  rivers  of  sunbeams  poured 
Upon  their  sides  from  the  warm  deeps  of  sunset. 
And  I  have  seen  them,  too,  like  holy  altars 

While  the  3un's  fire  burned  bright  upon  their  crests, 
And  like  reverent  priests  stood  giant  pine 
And  cedar. 


70 


Our  Mountains. 


Tliis  morn,  O  grand  Sierras ! 
Ye  did  seem  part  of  the  bending  sky, 
Curtained  with  glory.     The  white  and  luminous 
Mists  were  round  ye,  just  stirred   by  breezes  light  - 
Winged,  while  through  their  folds  diaphanous  the 
Sun's  pure  white  rays  were  shed  in  diamond 
Brightness,  and  blue  as  heaven  thy  mountained 
Glory  gleamed  behind  the  mist-wrought  curtain. 

O  Mother  Mountains!     Xo  Sinnis  of 
Terror  are  ye  upon  my  spirit,  but   glorious 
Pisgahs   rather,   where   shines    Omnipotence, 
And  my  glad  spirit  spreads  its  wings  of  trust 
And  flieth  godward,  and  in  the  bosom 
Of  His  love  and  power  finds  rest  and  peace. 

OUR  MOUNTAINS.     (1901.) 
Lofty  and  grand,  as  if  they  touched  the  stars, 
And  held  communion  with  the  moving  winds, 
And  the  great-voiced  thunders,  our  mountains   rise, 
Uplifted  to  the  blue  of  the  far  skies, 
Solemn  and  majestic,  like  Time's  giant 
Children.     How  voiceful   they   of  power, 
Of  th'  unhindered  might  of  the  Eternal, 
Who  spake  and  it  was  done,  and  who  holdeth 
The  vast  seas  within  the  hollow  of  His 
Hand,  and   guides  the  planets   as   they  onward 
Roll   forevermore  within  their  unseen 
Orbits.     And  how  eloquent  their  voice  of 
Enduring  strength  and  the  wondrous  glory 
Of  changeless  majesty.     The  stars  dream  i;i 
The  sky-deeps  above  them,  while  clouds  mantle 
Their  shoulders  when  the  rains  of  winter  drop 
Their  pearls   upon   the  emerald   plains,   which 
Laugh  with  blossoming  beauty,  while  their  breath 
Is  fragrance  and  their  voice  is  song.     O  mounts ! 
How  beautiful  ye  are  when  the  bright  Sun 
Leaps  from  th'  arms  of  Dawn  and  pours  his  baptism 
Of  light  upon  ye!     Rivers  of  gold  and 
Shining  jasper  streams  and  floods  of  amethyst 
Roll  o'er  your  granite  fronts,  and  we  seem  to 
See  the  pearly  gates  ajar  upon  your 
Crests,  and  Thought  leaps  upward,  as  if  borne  on 
Angel  wings  past  suns  and  stars  to  heaven. 
The  Sun  doth  love  ye,  and  when  Evening  comes 
Flis  last  look  rests  upon  ye,  while  with  its 
Transforming  touch  he  makes  ye  glorious 
In  beauty,  earth's  miracles  of  wonder. 

II.   (1902.) 

Our  grand  old  mountains,  how  they  lift  their  heads 
Unto  the  skies!     Like  rosy  petals  lie 
The  soft  red  clouds  of  sunset  on  their  crests, 
And  in  the  morn  the  golden  Sun  for  a 
Moment  seems  to  stay  his  swift  uprising, 
And  shines  h'ke  some  wondrous  Kohinoor 
Upon  their  lofty  summits,  while  Day's  shining  hair 
Of  glimmering  sunbeams  falls  like  a  mantle 
Hound  their  shoulders.     They  commune  with  the  stars 
When  Night  is  here  and  Silence  dreams  upon 
Their  breast.     The  Moon  climbs  upward  and  whispers 


Her  secrets  to  them,  and  the  winds  weave  there 

Their  symphonies  and  sing  of  power. 

Hand  in  hand  with  Time  they  stand  and  watch  the 

Ages  pass  and  smile  at  Change;  see  nations 

Rise  and  perish  while  their  rocky  fronts  remain 

As  changeless  as  the  stars.     O  type  of  the 

Eternal   are  they  in  their  enduring 

Strength  and  majesty!  and  they  speak  to  us 

Of  Him  who  spoke  and  it  was  done,  and  who 

is  now  and  ever  shall  be,  and  they  are 

Time's  alphabet  of  the  Eternal  One, 

And   His  wondrous  signature  of  power. 

AT  THE  GRAND  CANYON. 
(Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado,  June,  1901.) 

God's  own  hand  hath  left   its  impress  on  thee, 

His  touch  is  seen  upon  thy  rock-hewn  forehead, 

And  thou  dost  stand,  a  world  within  a  world, 

Where  Chaos  lingers  still,  and  Mystery 

\\  alks  dumb  amid  the  mighty  chiselings 

Of  Time.     The  sky  looks  down  upon  thee  with 

\.  ndying  wonder,  and  the  atmosphere 

Throws  robes  of  mystic  color  round  thee  which 

Change  at  morn  and  noon  and  eve  their  rainbow 

Folds,  intangible  as  the  Summer's  breath, 

As  from  the  edge  of  some  far-off  planet 

We  stand  upon  the  rim  of  thy  vast  deep 

And  look  down  upon  thy  giant   forms,  thy 

Carved   domes  and  temples  with  their  rocky  spires, 

And  thy  wide  valley's  floor,  where  to  our  eyes 

Thy  mighty  river  seems  a  silver  thread 

Creeping  with   hushed   voice  amid   the   shadows. 

Thy  great  trees,  which  lift  their  branches  to  the 

Sun,  look  like  tender  grasses,  a  living 

Line  of  green,  stirless  upon  thy  breast, 

As  if  the  lullaby  of  ages  had 

Soothed   them   into   slumber.     Thou   dost   seem   a-dream, 

To  lie  while  the  airs  of  the  old  Past  flow 

Round  thee.     Thou  dost  look  into  the  face  of 

Time  and  smile  at  Change,  a  marvel  strange  amid 

Created  things.     We  may  search  the  wide  earth 

Over  and   still   find   no  likeness  elsewhere 

To  thee.     God's  own  finger  hath  scooped  out  thy 

Titan  forms,  and  Time  stands  by  in  worshipful 

Admiration   and   is   still.     So  we  stand 

Dumb  with  reverent   awe,  while  Wonder  wraps 

Us  in  his  robes  of  worship  and  clothes  us 

With  humility,  till  our  souls  cry  out — 

Our  God  is  here,  for  lo!  we  see  His  footprints 

And  the  marvels  of  His  hand  within  this  place. 

ON  THE  DESERT. 
(En  route  to  Buffalo,  June,  1901.) 

The  Eve  is  here  with  coming  troop  of  stars, 
The  Day  has  gone  to  sleep  within  the  West, 
Wearing  a    lingering   sunbeam   in   its   vest 
Of  crimson  clouds — soft,  golden  bars 
Of  light  on  the   far  mountains  lie, 
Kindred  with  those  which  glow  within  the  sky. 


Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge. 


Silence  profound  upon  the  desert  lies, 

And  Loneliness  with  soundless,  ghostly  tread 

Walks   the   wide   spaces;  shining   o'erhead 

The  stars   from  out  the  deeps  of  bending  skies 

Look  down  upon  it— the  plants  lean 

In  breathless  silence  the  white  sands  between. 

Weird   cacti   rise   upon   the  lonely  plain 

Like  some  grim  phantoms  of  a  vanished  past, 

Or  speechless  genii  of  the  desert  vast 

Which  may  not  move  or  e'er  find  voice  again. 

The  yellow  lizard  runs  amid  the  sands, 

And   everywhere   the   pale-green    sage-brush    stands. 

O  Desolation!  fitting  home  for  thee, 

And  yet  how  fair  the  wondrous  lights  that  fall, 

The  atmospheric   glory  over   all, 

The  charm  of  color  in  each  thing  we  see, 

A  picture  painted  by  the  Father's  hand, 

And  framed  in  silence,  lo!    we  see  it  stand. 

THE  ROYAL  GORGE. 
(En  route  westward,  June  29,  1901.) 
Oh,  I  have  looked  today  in  Nature's   face, 
As  into  some  great  God's,  omnipotent  and  vast 
As  high  infinity.     His  rock-built  dwelling-place 
Nature  herself  hath   fashioned.     I   stand   dumb 
With  wonder.     The  poverty  of  human  speech 
Weighs  on  me,  for  it  can  never  paint 
Majestic,   rocky   mounts   whose   foreheads   reach 
To  the  far  skies  with  the  soft  touch  of  heav'n 
Upon  them,  as  to  smooth  their  wrinkled  crests, 
And  crown  them  with  the  sunlight's  glory  where 
The  wild  winds  rave  and  the  mad  thunder  rests, 
And  stars  seem   nearer  than  the   forest  floor. 
Thousands  of  feet  these  great  rocks  upward  lift 
Their  rugged   forms,  huge  Titans  of  the  wayside, 
Guarding  the  river  as  its  waters  swift 
Rush  onward.     They,  garmented  with   grandeur 
And  girt  with  strength,  disdain  the  tempest's  wrath, 
Fold  round  their  forms  the  robes  of  Silence, 
Girdle  themselves  with  waterfalls  whose  path 
We  trace  as  'twere  the  alphabet  of  Time 
Writing  its   elemental  story  there, 
Which  we  may  read  and  see  what  God  hath  wrought 
Amid  the  mountains,  in  His  temples  fair, 
Where  hills  are  His  high  priests,  and  living  streams 
The  choir  who  chant  their  anthems  in  His  praise; 
And  wild  birds  pour  their  glad  Te  Deums,  too, 
And  the  pine  trees  their  fragrant  censers  raise, 
Filled  with  the  incense  Nature  offers  here. 
"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills 
From  whence  cometh  my  help;  my  help  cometh 
From  the  Lord  which  made  heaven   and  earth.     He 
Will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved,  He 
That  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber.     Behold 
He  that  keepeth  Israel  shall  neither 
Slumber  nor  sleep.     The  Lord  is  thy  keeper, 
The  Lord  is  thy  shade  upon  thy  right  hand; 
The  Sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day,  nor  the 
Moon   by   night.      The   Lord   shall   preserve   thee    from 


All  evil,  He  shall  preserve  thy  soul.     The  Lord 
Shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy  coming 
In  from  this  time  forth,  and  even  for  evermore." 

So  sang  God's  saint  of  old,  so  let  us  sing, 

We  who  have  looked  today  upon  the  face 

Of  God's  high  mountain  peaks.     O  let  them  ring 

With  the  soul  worship  that  our  hearts  shall  raise. 

NIAGARA.     (1901.) 

With  voice  of  many  waters  thou  dost  speak 
In  tones  of  thunder  to  the  listening  world, 
And  thy  vast  floods  sweep  onward,  clothed  in  their 
Robes  of  sunshine,  dropped   from  cloudless  skies, 
Wrapping  thy  deeps  with  glory  until  tin- 
Waters  flash  with  light.     Rainbows  are  on   tin- 
Forehead,   white   veils   of  mist   are   round   about 
Thy  feet.     Thy  path  cloth  lie  'twixt  two  great  realms 
Of  Freedom,  where  hopes  of  man  are  highest, 
And  thou   art    free,   resistless   in   thy  might, 
As  thou  dost  onward  flow  past  the  wide  land, 
Chanting    forever   thy    glorious    anthem 
Of  God's  power,  while  the  earth  trembles  as 
Thou  dost  leap  from  rocky  heights  to  the  deep 
Channel   where  thy   waters   swirl   resistless. 
And  where  the  might  of  man  would  be  as  vain 
To  battle  with  thine  onward  flow  as  would 
An   infant's   puny   arm   to   stay  th'   angry 
Thunderbolt   of  raging  storm.     Great   river. 
With   thy   un fathomed   deeps,   sweep   on   within 
The  pathway  that   thy  waves   have  ploughed, 
Thou   emblem   of  Omnipotence,  of  His 
Unceasing  power,  which  like  to  thee  dotli 
Rest  not  day  or  night  through  Time's  long  ages. 
Seeing  thy  grandeur,  we  do  stand   dumb  and 
Worship  the  Invisible  who  in  the 
Old  eternity  of  years  spake  and  thou 
Didst  answer  Him  with  thy  voice  of  sounding 
Waters,  chanting  their  ceaseless  anthem — 
The  burden  of  whose  utterance,  as  we 
Listen  to  the  overwhelming  thunder  of 
Its  mighty  tones,  is  ever,  God!  God!  God! 

ON  THE  DESERT.     (1903.) 
I  crossed  the  desert's  wastes,  and  lo! 

The  white  sands  paved  their  vast  wide  floor 
Where  weird,  wild   cactus  plants   did   grow, 

And    Desolation's    wings    spread    o'er 
The  silent  vastness;  sunset  fell, 

And   swift  the  plains  transfigured  lay, 
Like  something  that  had  blossomed  new 

Within    the   clasping   arms  of  Day. 

Such   wondrous  lights   around   us  lay, 

Such  wondrous  colors   fell  around, 
The  scattered  rocks  no  longer  gray 

Shone   with   a   glory   most  profound. 
Gold,  crimson  and  rich  amethyst 

Gleamed   in  the   sunset's   burning  light, 
A   new  world   on  the  desert's  breast 

Was   bursting   there   upon   our   sight. 


72 


POPOCATEPETL. 


The  Desert. 


Afar,  along  the  desert's  rim, 

The  mountains  rose  like  crimson  towers 
Whose  light   might   nevermore  grow  dim; 

Unnumbered   little  sand-horn  flowers 
Lifted  their  heads  the  rocks  beside, 

And   seemed   to  softly  smile  as  we 
Along  that  waste  of  sand  did  ride, 

No  longer  white  but  glorified. 

O  wondrous  artist  is  the  Sun ! 

How  rich  the  colors  that  he  takes, 
How  fair  the  picture  when  he's  done! 

There's   magic    in    the    scene   he   wakes 
From  the  dead  whiteness  of  the  plain; 

As  he  sinks  downward  to  the  West, 
His  beams  reach  every  grain   of  sand, 

And  there  like  shining  gems  they  rest. 

THE  DESERT. 

(On  the  Desert,  Oct.  5,  1904.) 

Thou  strange,  weird   specter   of  Nature's   wide   domain! 
Gaunt,   soulless,   with   the   ever-burning   flame 
Of  the  bright  Sun  enfolding  thy  parched  sands, 
Where  the  spiked  cacti  like  a  demon  stands, 
M'ith  thorny  spears   ready  to  pierce  and   Meed 
The  unwary  traveler  who  takes  no  heed. 

The  mountains  round  thee  grim  and  rocky  rise, 
As  if  they  mocked  the  beauty  of  the  skies. 
The  stony  ledges  on   the  hillsides   rest 
Like  bleaching  skeletons  upon  the  breast 
Of  the  dead  centuries  of  the  mighty  Vast — 
The   wondrous   storied   yet    unwritten    Past. 
A  silent  sphynx,  a  strange,  dumb  mystery, 
In  vain  we  try  to  read  thy  history. 

ON  MOUNTAIN  HEIGHTS.     (1904.) 

0  mountains!     'mid  your  solemn   silences, 
With  my  heart  filled  with  thoughtful   reveries, 

1  love  to  wander,   for  ye  speak  to  me, 
And  tell   of  power   and   awful   majesty. 

And  then  again  like  the  dumb  Sphynx  ye  rise, 

Silent   with   all   your  hidden   mysteries. 

Ye  know  the  past,  but   still  ye  will   not  tell 

A  word  of  its  great  history.     Breezes  swell 

'Mid   leaf-tongued   trees   that   skirt   thy   canon's   walls, 

Answering  to  music  of  thy  waterfalls. 

Man   dwells  not  here  amid  your  lofty  heights 

That  stand  alone  with  God,  watching  the   flight 

Of  Time,  catching  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Watching  the  sunrise  as  the  Morning  nears, 

Beholding  generations  as  they  come  and  go, 

E'en  like  a  tidal  wave's  great  overflow. 

O  God  is  here!     So  still,  so  calm,  so  high, 

Ye  are   His  temple,  rising  to  the  sky. 

Above  the  world  of  sin,  the  world  of  care, 

Your  pillared  domes  do  rest  in  upper  air. 

The  fret  and  care  of  life  is  far  away, 

And  here  we  hear  God's  great  wind-organ  play. 

The  waterfalls  do  thunder  of  His  power, 

The  sunbeams  sing  of  love,  and  fill  each  hour 

With  beauty.     No  sound  of  traffic's  din  we  hear. 

Peace,  peace  is  round  us,  and  we  feel  God  near. 


POPOCATEPETL. 
(Mexico,  Nov.  2,  1904.) 

I  stood  and  gazed  afar,  afar, 
As  if  unto  some  other  sphere, 
Across  the  wide  plains  lying  near, 
And  there,  high-lifted  as  a  star, 
Piercing  the  blue  sky's  shining  deep, 
Above  the  distant  cloudlands  hurled, 
As  bulwark  of  this  lower  world, 
I  saw  the  lofty  mountain's  steep. 

The  glittering  snows  were  on  its  crest, 
Like  silver  gleaming  in  the  light 
Of  tropic  suns,  their  mantle  white 
Did  on  its  mighty  shoulders  rest. 
How  far  'tis  lifted  to  the  blue, 
How  high!  as  if  'twere  drawing  near 
The  mighty  orbit  of  some  sphere. 
Some  planet  that  is  circling  through 

The  realms  of  Space,  and,  moving  on, 
Seeks  where  God  walks  within  the  Vast. 
So  does  this  mountain  standing  fast 
Rise  ever  upward,  and  does  don 
The  glory  of  the  skies  above, 
Splendor  of  color  and  of  light, 
And  starry  jewels  of  the  Night, 
As  if  they  were  the  gift  of  love. 
Majestic  mountains,  at  thy  feet 
The  boundless  valleys  are  unrolled, 
And  their  warm  tropic  breasts  enfold 
Great  harvest  seas  whose  billows  meet 
In  glorious  tides  of  plenty  there. 
And  there  do  old,  old  cities  rise, 
None   fairer  underneath  the  skies. 
Mount  of  the  sun !    The  gods  might  dare 

To  climb  thy  awful  steep  and  look, 
As  from  a  star,  the  world  upon, 
Might   see  the  boundless  ether  don 
The  golden  glory  that  it  took 
From  the  bright  Sun  as  it  arose 
And  paved  the  mountain  with  its  gold, 
And  paved  the  valleys,  wide  unrolled, 
With  sunbeams  at  the  pale  Dawn's  close. 
O  mount  of  majesty!    Sublime 

In  awful  grandeur,  vast  and  high, 

Standing  as  pillar  for  the  sky 

To  rest  upon;    footstool  of  Time, 

Ages  on  ages  old  art  thou. 

Infinity  o'ershadows  thee, 

O  lofty  mount !     Reverently 

In  wordless  homage  do  we  bow. 

For  God,  thy  Maker,  He  is  here, 
No  hand  but  His  could  lift  thy  form — 
O  mountain  brother  of  the  Dawn ! 
So  near  to  far-off  starry  spheres. 
The  winds  mate  with  thee,  and  the  clouds 
Garment  thy  sides;  the  sunlight  pours 
Upon  thee  all   its   golden  stores, 
Omnipotence  thy   form  enshrouds. 


73 


n6er  Arctic  Skies: 


'Oh,  triose  long  dreary  days  without  a  night!" 


AN  ARCTIC  DAY. 
(St.  Paul's  Island,  Bering  Sea.  1880.) 

Oh,  the   fair  world   seems   dead   in   this   desolate  land, 
This  land  near  the  Pole  with  its  cold,  sullen  sea, 
With  its  gray  leaden  sky  looking  down  on  the  sand 
Of  the   rock-fretted   beach   and   snow-covered   lea. 
[  hear  the  lone  billows  make  moan  on  the  shore, 
I   hear  the  dread  tempest's  mad  shriek  in   the  air, 
See  the  ghost  of  the  waters  rising  white  evermore, 
Then  sink  down   in   foam,   while  in   sullen   despair 
Stand,   gnawed  by   the  seas,  black,  desolate,  grim, 
The  beetling  crags,  like  the  wrecks  of  a  world, 
While   far  o'er  the   waves,  cold,  pallid   and   dim, 
Right  beyond  where  a  white-tossing  billow  is  curled, 
Falls    the   wraith   of   a    sunbeam,    just    a    wraith    that    is 

white, 

As   if  touched  by  the   frost  when  the  Sun,  sinking  low, 
Slips  down  through  the  ice  to  the  regions  of  Night, 
And  the  ice-floe  makes  moan  as  it  drifts  to  and   fro. 

The  mole-hill  at  noon  casts  its  shadow  behind, 
So  low  skulks  the  Sun  on  the  sky's  southern  rim ; 
Ice-ribbed   are   the   mountains — the   fierce   northern   wind 
Has  piled  the  white  drifts  on  the  desolate  plain; 
Nor  tree  casts  its  shadow,  nor  shrub  lifts  its  head, 
And  Daylight  dies  swift  in  the  arms  of  the  Noon; 
Here  the  great  mother-heart  of  Nature  is  dead, 
The  iceberg  her  tombstone  and  ice  seas  her  tomb. 

THE  PRIBYLOV  ISLES.     (1880.) 

O    strange,   bleak   land!   cradled    within   the   seas 

Where  Winter  holds  his   carnival,   and   the 

Wild  winds  rush  with  the  cry  of  awful 

Thunders  through  the  shuddering  space,  heaping 

The  seas  into  high  mountainous  billows, 

Piling  the  sands  in  dome-like  shapes,  or 

Into  shifting  pyramids;  scooping  out 

Hollows   in  the  soil,   which  storms  of  passing 

Centuries    plough    into    deep    valleys,    whose 

Bare,  white  sandy   walls  are  playthings  of  the 

Blinding   tempests.      Land    where    but    the    ghost    of 

Summer  comes,  with   garments  of  white  mists  and 

Trailing  fogs;  where  the  blue  heavens  are 

Curtained  with  the  clouds  of  brooding  storms,  and 

Seldom  comes  the  golden  brightness  of  a 

Cloudless  summer  day.     On  thy  wild,  rocky 

Cliffs,  where  angry  tides  break  in  white  foam  through 

The  cloud-curtained   summer-time,  without   the 

Soul  of  song  do  millions  of  strange  birds 

Sit  dumb.     Hefie  the  arrie  makes  her  home  on 

Thy  bare,  frowning,  sea-washed  walls.     No  nest  of 

Downy  softness  weaves  she  for  her  young, 

But  in  the  high-cut  hollows  of  thy  cliffs 

She  lays   her  eggs,   and  broods   above  them   through 

The  sunless  days.     The  scarlet-crowned  sea-parrot 

Sits    and    listens    to   the   wash   of   waves,   his 


Head,  like  some  bright  blossom,  starring  the  bleak, 
Gray  cliffs;  and  the  horned  puffin,  with  its 
Feathered   horns  turned  backward,  like  a  golden 
Half-moon   from  its  head,  sits  on  the  jutting 
Crags,  kissed  by  the  spray,  but  songless,  as  its 
Soul  were  sad  and   longing   for  the  sunshine, 
Lying  as  in  a  dream,  its  bright  eyes  turned 
Unto  the  sea  with  meditative  gaze. 
And  here  the  choochkie,  with  its  coat  of  brown, 
Just  touched  with  white,  as  if  some  falling  snow- 
Flake  brushed  its  wings,  chirps  through  the  gloomy 
Summer,  and  twitters  to  its  young  within 
Their  grassy  nest;   and   the  songful  meadow- 
Lark  with  its  nest  upon  the  hills,  and  'mid 
The  lowlands  of  this   island   world,  the   fair 
Sweet   prima   donna  of  the  birds,   rises 
To  greet  the  sunshine  and  the  clouds  alike, 
Paving  its  pathway  through  the  air  with  song. 

And  here,  when  the  gray  mists  melted,  and  sunny 
Days,  like  some  bright  dream  of  beauty,  broke 
Within   those  skies,   and   the  shining  sapphire 
Heavens  showed  infinite  deeps  of  air,  and 
The  sea  was  bright   and  calm  as  it  had 
Never  mirrored  cloud,  or,  tortured  by  the 
Tempests,  been  tossed  into  swelling  mountains, 
Whose   angry   waters    gnawed   the   rocks   and   ate 
Into  the  land  until  its  edge  crumbled 
Into  its  maw,  we  wandered  out,  rejoicing 
In   the  glad   new   heavens   and   earth  of 
Glorious  sunshine.     On  the  wide  rock-strewn 
Slopes,   down-stretching  to  the  sea,   millions   of 
Happy   seals,   imaging  content,  covered 
The  rocks,  or  sported  in  the  waves;  down  to 
The  water's  edge,  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
Twinkled  the  shining  flippers  of  the  herd; 
As  lying  in  their  dolce  far  niente 
They  fanned  themselves  within  the  sunny  warmth. 

Over  the  waters,  like  an  island  hung 

In  air,  with  the  blue  heavens  of  sky 

Above,  and  the  blue  mirror  of  the  sea 

Beneath,   rose   Otter  Isle,  with  its   closed 

Crater,  which   in  other  years  smoked   in  its 

Wrath;  and   farther  o'er  the  watery  plain 

Lay  rocky  Walrus  Isle,  like  some  huge  leviathan 

Stretched   in   his  mighty  slumber  on  the  deep; 

And    farther   still   away,   with   its  blue   crown 

Of  mountains,   whose  high  crests   seemed   pillared   on 

The  sky,   Saint   George's   Island,  like  a 

Gigantic  castle,  reared  by  some  ocean 

Genii.     Oh,   those  long,   dreary   days  without 

A  night !  with  only  a  soft,  starry  twilight 

Veiling  the  birth  of  Morning,  when  the  fair, 

Round,  golden  sun  dropped  into  the  sea  but 

I' or  swift  baptism,  without  a  dream  of 

Rest;   when   Midnight's  dusky   robes  were  locked 


McClure's  Magazine,  June,  1904. 

"STORM-TOSSED   ON    ALASKA'S    SHORE." 


Sunland  and  Snoicland. 


Away,  and  in  their  place  she  wore  soft 
Garments   of   shining   gray,   just   silvered    with 
Faint  starlight,  and  the  sea  crept  to  the  Pole, 
Laughing   in   sunshine,   holding   untold 
Within  its  breast  all  the  strange  secret  of 
The  Midnight  Sun.     O  dreary  land,  ice-locked 
And   desolate,   where  Nature's   ghost  walks 
Evermore,  and  seas  imprisoned  sleep  in 
Icy  shrouds  beneath  the  unseen  shadow 
Of  the  Northern  Pole ! 

SUNLAND  AND  SNOWLAND. 
(At  St.  Paul's  Island,  Bering  Sea,  Alaska,  April,  1881.) 

Close  by  the  Golden  Gate  so  wide  ajar, 
My  memory  whispers  of  a  wondrous  land, 

With  beauty  like  the  undimmed  brightness  of  a  star, 
Where  hushed  sea-waves  creep  over   golden  sand. 

E«ch  month  a  tangle  of  blossoms, 

Sweet  as  a  field  of  clover; 
Each  month  like  a   May  repeated, 

Like  a  song  sung  over  and  over; 
Each  time  with   a    fresh    note  added; 

Each  time  more  sweetly  in  tune; 
Each  month  to  the  May-time  glory 

Is  joined  the  ripe  splendor  of  June. 

In  the  winter  the  rhythm  of  rain-drops, 

And  the  smile  of  the  growing  wheat, 
And  the  laugh  of  the  running  streamlet, 

Waking  young  buds  from  sleep; 
The  glow  of  the  golden  orange, 

The  shade  of  the  stately  palms, 
The  warm,  rich  red  of  the  berry, 

Full  ripe  in  the  Winter's  arms. 


But  here,  near  the  dim  circle  of  Arctic 
Seas,   the  midday  sun  hangs  low  above 
The  southern  edge  of  the  o'erbending  skies; 
Gray  mists  have  shrouded   it,   and  howling  winds 
Rush  fierce  and  swift  from  out  the  frozen  North, 
Hurling  black  clouds  till  noonday  seems  like  night; 
The  sea  is  still;  locked  in  its  icy  fetters, 
It  moans  and  mutters,  but  we  hear  no  sound; 
Its  lips  are  ice-pressed  down  upon  the  billows, 
Which  beneath  gnaw  at  the  sands,  and,  maddened, 
Writhe  in   frozen   silence.     Every  hill 
Is  white  as  is  a  ghost,  and  the  far  old 
Mountains    stand     grim,    stark    and     cold     as 
skeletons. 

Nature    is   savage   here,   and 
Wild,  and  her  utterance,  even  in  spring-time, 
Is  in  bellowing  tempests,  and  in  seas 
Thunder-tongued,  breaking  on   gray  cliffs  and 
Seamed  rocks,  into  which  maniac  tides  have 
Gnawed  when  lashed  into  mad  fury  by  the 
Driving  storms.     No   forests  crown  the  hills;   nor 
Tree,  nor  shrub,   in  all  this   island  world  drops 
Shadowy  beauty  in  its  short  Summer 


bleached 


deep- 


On  valley's  length  or  nn   tin-  rising  heights. 

Somber  and  sullen  the  slow  Summer  comes, 

Trailing  dun,  gloomy  robes  of  densest   fogs. 

The  sun  steals  masked  through  cloud-enveloped  deeps; 

The  tender-bladed  grass,  unkissed  by  the 

Warm  sunshine,  puts  on  a  mournful  green,  like 

That   the  solemn   pines  wear  on   vast  heights. 

The  flowers,  like  white-cheeked  nuns,  hide  their  soft 

Faces  by  the  gray  old  rocks,  and  blossom 

Tremblingly,  though  some  there  are  that  steal  the 

Sun's  bright  hue,  and  golden-eyed,  star  the  green 

Hills,  and  smile  as  if  they'd  caught  a  sunbeam 

Gone  astray,  and  hid  it  in  their  petals. 

On  scarred  sea-cliffs,  as  if  o'erawed  by  cry 

Of  shuddering  waters  on  the  rocks  beneath, 

Millions  of  songless  birds  sit  dumb.     All 

Nature's  heart  is  chilled  in   this  her  island 

World  which  she  has  cradled  in  the  mists  and  seas. 


O  land  of  sunshine  and  of  fragrant  flowers! 

Of   tropic   palms   and  orange-laden   trees, 
Of  golden   days  and  blossom-scented  hours, 

Of  wild   sweet   bird-song,   and   of  humming  bees! 

O  Summer-Land!  from  this  far  northern  isle 
To  thee  I  hold  out  waiting  heart  and  hands; 

As  longs  a  lover  for  his  mistress'-smile, 

So  long  T   for  thy  golden,  sun-kissed  strands! 

IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  MIDNIGHT  SUN.     (1882.) 

What  lies  beyond  your  awful  verge, 

O   ice-bound   seas!  where   ships   go  down; 

Where  beats  for  aye  the  angry  surge 
Beneath   thy   alp-like  iceberg's    frown? 

What   lights  the  blazing  spectral   fires 
That   flame  against   thy  northern  skies? 

Ah,    frozen   seas   and   ice-wrought   pyres! 
Guard  well  thv  fateful  mysteries. 


STORM-TOSSED  ON  ALASKA'S  SHORE. 

Bleak  the  morn  and  wild  the  sea, 

Writhing  in  its  demon  glee; 
Gnawing  madly  at  the  shore 
Where  its  great,  white  billows  roar 

Roar  and  leap  upon  the  rocks, 

With   a   sound   like   earthquake  shocks. 

How  the  white  spray  foaming  flew. 
Veiling  sky  and   ocean,  too, 

While  the  winds  with  awful  shriek 
'Gainst  the  rock-walled  islands  beat- 
Beat  and  howled  in  maddened  wrath 
There  and  on  our  lone  ship's  path. 

Far  above  us,  overhead, 

Like  a  banner  for  the  dead, 
The  volcano's   smoke  appeared, 
Streaming  o'er  us  as  we  neared 

That  bleak  island  world  afar, 

Whose  summer  skies  scarce  know  a  star. 


(1897.) 


Under  Arctic  Skies. 


O  bleak,  wild  mountain!  I  would  know 
If  e'er  the  Sun  doth  downward  throw 
One  warm  and  scintillating  glow 
Upon  thy  frozen  breast  of  snow. 
Or  was  it  here  that  Night  was  born, 
And  cradled  in  the  lap  of  storm, 
Its  lullaby  the  winds'  wild  roar, 
As   leap   they   thy   vast   ramparts   o'er, 
To  seize  the  Sea  and  make  its  breast 
One  life-engulfing  mountain  crest? 


O  far,  so  far  seem  lands  of  bloom, 
Sweet  lands  of  fragrance  and  the  noon 
Where  lieth  Summer  in  a  swoon 
Of  light  and  gladness,  and  is  calm 
The  breathless  air  where  pine  and  palm 
Sleep  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  hills 
Dream  to  the  music  of  the  rills, 
And  poppies  glow  above  the  sod 
As  if  they  were  the  smile  of  God. 


OVERLAND    IN   PIONEER    DAYS. 


lE 


ast  an6 


'The  match  of  empire." 


PREDICTION. 

Upon  these  sunset  shores  shall  Freedom  place 
Her  crown  of  Empire;  here  shall  arise  the 
Cities  of  the  future,  resplendent  with 
The  liberty  which  maketh  great.     The  love 
Of  Freedom  shall  be  strong  as  the  rampart 
Of  these  eternal  hills,  whose  heads,  pillowed 
Upon  the  world-old  firmament,  for  aye 
Defy  the  earthquake  and  the  thunderbolt, 
And  tell  the  patient  stars  the  story  of 
Their  centuries  of  life. 

Passed  hence  the  sun- 
Browned  children  of  the  soil,  whom  Nature  had 
So  fondly  nursed  and   fed,  that  here  beneath 
These  skies  the  later  offspring  of  progressive 
Time   should   build   its    fairest   citadels,   and 
Science  light  his  torch  and  poets  sing,  and 
Modern  Raphaels  find  divinest  power, 
And   statesman   shape  the   laws   for   human   good. 
O  glorious  Empire  of  the  Golden 
West!     Time   itself  shall   slumber   in   decay 
And  the  wide  and  billowy  ocean  cease 
To  surge,  and  the  transcendent  mountains  fall 
Prone  on  the  sunlit  valley's  breast  before 
Shall  perish  here  the  love  of  Freedom. 

FLOWER-LAND  AND  FROST-LAND.     (1876.) 
Oh,  am  I  awake  or  a-dreaming? 

And   where   do  my  senses   stray? 
What  means  this  budding  and  blooming — 

December  as  lovely  as  May? 

Oh,  where  has   the   Snow-King  wandered? 

And  the  magical  Frost-Realm — where 
Have  vanished  its  gleaming  cities, 

Its  towers  with  silvery  stair? 

The  gleam  of  its  magical  mountains, 

Its   diamond    forests   and    fern; 
Its  lakes  with  their  ripples  of  crystal, 

Its  flowers  of  rainbow  and  pearl? 

Oh,   where  is  the  music  of  sleigh-bells, 
And  the  rush  of  hurrying  feet — 

The  rhythm  of  happy  laughter 

From  the  boys  and  girls  in  the  street? 

And  where  is  the  roar  of  the  North-Wind? 

The  dance  of  the  feathery  snow? 
The  growl  of  the  waves  that  are  caught  in 

The    ice    and    imprisoned    below? 

Oh,  am  I  awake  or  a-dreaming? 

And  where  do  my  senses  stray? 
What  means  this  budding  and  blooming — 

December  as  lovely  as  May? 

HERE  AND  THERE. 
(Atlantic  and  Pacific— December,  1878.) 
Ah!  miss  we  here  the  glory  of  the  woods 

Which   Autumn  kindles  into  scarlet  fire, 
Or  clothes  in  gold  and  crimson-tinted  dyes 


Before  she  makes  of  it  her  funeral  pyre? 
Such  brightness  is  the  whisper  of  Decay, 

It  is  the  prelude  of  a  leafless  wild — 
Of  a  long,  dreary,  wintry,  snow-swept  day, 

When  storms  sob  through  the  forest  like  a  child, 
Or  like  a  heart  deserted;  bare  and  white, 

The  trees  toss  skeleton  arms,  and   moaning  bend, 
While  tempests  shriek,  and  in  wild  fury  pile 

Their  snows  upon  them;  while  Frost  and  Winter  send 
Such  terror  to  the  Earth  that,  blanched  and  white. 

It  lies  a   frozen  thing,  so  dead  and  cold, 
So  haggard  and  so  ghastly  to  the  sight, 

We  wonder   never   that   the   poor   old 
Year    should    die. 

But   here,   flower-crowned   and   bright 

With  golden  sunshine,  and  skies  blue  and  fair 
As  Summer's  own,  the  year  dies  not,  but  from  the  sight 

It  is  translated,  while  glory  lingers  like  a  crown  where 
It  hath  passed,  and  the  New  Year  opes  its  eyes 
On  sweet  and  June-like  beauty  filling  earth  and  skies. 


SUNSET  GATES.     (1885.) 
O  rosy  gates  of  the  West ! 

Swing  open  wide   for  me, 
And  let  me  sail  in  my  Fancy's  boat, 

Over  the  Sunset  Sea. 

Swing  open,  O  gates  of  pearl! 

Of  amber  and  crimson,  swing! 
While  I  float  in  my  boat  through  the  sapphire  deep 

Where  the  starry  islands  spring. 


BESIDE  THE  WESTERN  SEA.     (1900.) 

Oh,  I  wait  to  see  the  glory  of  this  land  that  fronts  the 
West, 

hand  as  yet  unsung  in  story  of  earth's  greatest  and  its 
best, 

But  its  future  swims  in  brightness,  and  the  golden  Yet- 
to-be, 

Shining  with  Fame's  spotless  whiteness,  lies  beside  this 
Western  Sea. 

Poets  here  and  grand  immortals  in  the  realm  of  art  and 
song, 

Patriots  shall  tread  its  portals,  and  the  sons  of  science 
throng 

Here,  where  Summer  ever  lingers;  here,  where  lofty 
mountains  rise, 

Thrusting  upward  granite  fingers  to  the  deeps  of  cloud 
less  skies. 

Wide  we  set  our  sea-gates  open  to  the  old  and  waiting- 
East, 

Commerce,  all  her  barriers  broken,  brings  to  us  of  wealth 
a  feast, 

And  the  glory  of  this  Nation  in  its  rich  futurity 

Shall  shine  proudest  in  its  luster  here  beside  this  Western 
Sea. 


77 


nt5  of   patriotism: 


TRIBUTES  TO  VALOR  AND  GREATNESS. 


DAWN  OF  THE  CENTENNIAL.     (1876.) 

0  Golden  Land  with  skies  so  warm  and  tender, 
With   fragrant   breath  of  never-dying  flowers, 
With  solemn  mountains  robed  in  purple  splendor, 
And  built  with  rocky  battlements  and  towers ! 

1  love  the  beauty  of  thy  quiet  canons, 
Sunlighted    through   the   summer's    dreamy    hours; 
With   orange  bloom   and   shining  palm   and   banyans, 
And  the  rich  fruitage  born  of  winter's  showers. 

In   thy   green  aisles  and  through  thy  sounding  arches 
Float  tenderest  whispers  of  far  tropic  climes, 
And  dreams  of  Italy,  with  glowing  masses 
Of  sunset  clouds,  and  deep  blue  skies,  and  vines 

On  sunny  slopes,  lifting  their  purple  clusters 
All  kissed  to  richest  ripeness  by  the  Sun, 
And  soft  airs  from  the  Adriatic's  waters, 
With  every  hour  of  thy  fair  daylight  come. 

How  shall    I   write  the   story 

Of  the  year  that  is  gone? 
What  shall  I  do  with  the  glory 

And  what  do  with  the  wrong? 
Go  out  of  our  life,  O  dead  Year! 

Lay  in  thy  sepulcher, 
Sleep  with  the  Past! 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  the  New  Year? 
Thy  reign  could  not  last 
But  through  thy  twelvemonth; 

Go   sleep   with   the   centuries, 

And   come   not   to   vex   us 

With   troublesome   memories 

After  thy  exodus. 

Vain  hope!     O  heart  of  mine, 

Though  dead  is  the  year, 

Though  to  hinder  its  waking 

You  sit  by  its  bier, 

And  seal  up  its  sepulcher, 

Still  it   is  shaping 

And  making  Today. 

The  New  Year  must  feel  the  thrill  of  the  Old 
Even  though  it  be  buried  and  dead  and  cold. 

Write  its  deeds,  then, 
In    fair   letters    of   light, 
That  shall  shine  as  the  Sun, 
Where  .glory   has    won 
A   brightness    undying. 
Then  let   pale   Penitence 
Write   deeds   that   were  wrong, 
And  writing,  weep   tears 
That  shall  wash  them  as  white 
As  Forgiveness  can  make  them, 
More  white  than  the  light. 
Why  vanished  that   forgotten   race? 


O  Queen  of  Nations !  land  which  God  hath  made 

For  His  great  workshop,  where  His  hand  has  laid 

Foundations  deep   and  strong,  and  bulwarks  high 

For   Freedom;  where   He   has   unrolled   the   sky 

A  shining  banner  with  its  fields  of  blue 

Star-fretted,   and   grandly   stretching  through 

It  thrown  the  white  stripes  of  its  Milky  Way, 

As  bright  as  'twere  the  birthplace  of  the  Day, 

Reared  mountains  mid  whose  air  the  brain  and  brawn 

Of  giant  intellects  and  patriot  souls  are  born; 

And   through   great   fields  has   stored   vast   beds   of  coal, 

Made  ready  for  our  use  in  ages  old; 

Enough  to  feed  our  vulcan  fires  and  keep 

All  busy  industries  awhirl,  and  keep 

The   giant   Steam  to  utmost   fullness   fed, 

While  round  the  Continent  with  thundering  tread, 

O'er  countless  iron  roads  he  pushes  on 

The  Iron  Horse,  bearing  to  distant  wilds, 

Where   now,   with    Nature   slumbering,    Silence   smiles, 

The  Tide  of  Empire  to  the  setting  Sun, 

To  the  far  waters  of  the  Oregon; 

To  California  sitting  by  the  sea, 

With  germ  of  Empire  budding  silently, 

With  skies  so  bright  they  do  but  seldom  bear 

Only  rain  of  sunshine   in   their  golden  air; 

With  soil  so  rich  its  fruitful  hills  and  plains 

Seem  never  thirsting  for  sweet  summer  rains; 

Spread  lakes  like  pearls,  and  inland  seas  that  bear 

The  white-winged  ships  of  Commerce,  and  such  fair 

Green  fields,  like  emeralds  in  sunshine  set, 

And  round  them  dewy  diamonds,  that   fret 

The  sunshine  with   their  brightness;  and   stored 

The  earth  with  mines,  and  their  dark  caves  floored 

With  rich   gold,   and  precious  stones,  and  ores 

Of  iron  and  copper — such  vast  stores 

As  fill  a   nation's  need;  and  floods  of  oil 

Hid  in  deep  wells  beneath  the  bounteous  soil, 

Enough  to  make  a  beacon  for  the  world; 

And  round  the  great,  vast  continent  has  curled 

Two  mighty  oceans,  through  whose  broad   highways 

Perchance  shall   come  in  coming   future  days 

Great  tide  of  travel  from  the  ancient  East, 

Bearing  rich  stores  of  pearl  and  amethyst; 

The  Old  World's  greatness,  with  its  wealth  of  lore, 

And  all  things   fair  to  make  more  fair  the  shore 

Of  this  New  World. 

The  land  is  old   which  we   call   new, 
Its  buried  cities  lift  their   face, 
Tombstones  of  a   forgotten  race, 
Old    as    the    Pyramids    and    Sphinx, 
Perchance  as  old  almost  as  Time — 
Monuments  all  wrapped  in  mystery, 
With  no  Today,  but  Yesterday 
Written  all  o'er  them;  not  a  line 
But's  gray  with  hoary  touch  of  Time — 


Flag  of  the  free  hearts'  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 


Dawn  of  the  Centennial  Year. 


How  marched  the  white  sands  o'er  the  place 

Where  once  their  high-walled  cities  stood, 

Leaving  them   ghost-like   in   their  shroud? 

But  Echo  gives  back  no  reply, 

And  Silence  sits  all  solemnly. 

And  Fate  says,  " 'Twas  not  I 

Who   made    forget  fulness   their   grave:" 

And  History  says,  "On  page  of  mine 

There  is  nor  word,  nor  leaf,  nor  line 

The  wherefore  of  their  destiny." 

Then  Faith  looks  up  with  her  steady  eye, 

And  words  of  clear-voiced  prophecy, 

And  says,  "But   I   can  make  reply 

Why  vanished  that    forgotten    race, 

Xot  one  of  all  its  many  sons 

To   claim   a   heritage  or  place 

Tn    all    this   continent    of   space." 

Then  I,  so  still  and  reverently, 

While  Faith  made  clear  the  wherefore,  stood 

And  felt  that  all  she  said  was  good. 


In  the  old-time  land  of  the  flood, 

That    faces   all   the   centuries, 

The  land  of  Xineveh  and  Rome, 

And   ancient   Greece  and   Athens'   own, 

Of  Egypt  and  of  Palestine, 

Of  England,   royal   in  her  line; 

Of  China  sitting  by  her  seas, 

Counting    her    life    by    centuries; 

Of  Spain  with  Inquisition  fires; 

And  Germany,  where  first  the  glow 

Of    Reformation's    fires    began, 

Sat  trembling   Freedom,   dumb   with   woe 

In  days  we  call  the  Long  Ago. 

In  all  the  lands  beyond  the  seas 

That   face  all   Old  Time's  centuries, 

Was  manhood's  sacred  trust  denied ; 

The   right   of  man   to  be  a  man, 

Unless    high-born,    was    crucified. 

All  the  Old  World  was  tainted  by 

The  tainted  breath  of  Bigotry. 

But  Tyranny,  all  blindfolded. 

The  way  to  Freedom's  pathway  led — 

Unknowing  that   it   was   the   way — 

Across  the  white  sea's  foaming  yeast 

To  Winter,   rocked   with   cold   and   storm, 

With  forest-temples  vast  and  grand, 

And  long  aisles  filled  with  organ  notes, 

Wind-thunders  of  a   frozen   land, 

Slow  sailing  over  unknown  seas, 

And  wild,  storm-fretted   lengths  of  bays, 

The  Mayflower  come  to  this  new  world, 

And   Freedom's  banner  wide  unfurled. 

For  this  did  pass  that  vanished  race, 

To  give  to  Freedom  here  a  place. 

It  is  two  hundred  years  and  more 

Since  first  upon  that  rocky  shore 

That    white-sailed    ship    fought    with    the   breeze, 

And  ploughed  its  pathway  through  the  seas. 


"Each  man   an  unencompassed  host," 
So  sternly  standing  at  his  post, 
Daring  for  Freedom's  sake  to  breast 
The  dangers  of  the  wilderness. 

Faith  ceased,  and  then   I  sat  and  mused 

Of  all  those  far,  wild  solitudes; 

And  turned  and   faced  the  Then  and  Now; 

The  Then,   when   a  wild   forest  waste 

Covered  a  continent  of  space; 

The  Now,  when  thick  as  forest  bough 

That  in  those  old,  dim   forests  stood, 

Stand  cities  where  did  stand  the  wood. 

And   then    I   said,   Hath   Freedom  wrought 

All  that  she  dared,  or  wished,  or  sought? 

And   then   I   looked   from   east   to  west, 

From   west   to  east    and  back   again. 

And   looked    upon    the   whitened    sands, 

And  on  wide  stretch  of  lengthened  plain, 

And  saw  vast  fields  where  men  were  slain, 

Sleeping  on   tentless  camping  ground; 

Whole  armies  without  breath  or  sound. 

And   then    I   said,  Oh,  what   is  this 

What  fills  fair  Freedom's  home  with  graves? 

Have  fought  with  them  the  winds  and  waves, 

Or  here  hath  stalked  all  gaunt  and  grim, 

With   wasting   foot   like  hurricane, 

Famine,  another  name  for  Death? 

And  then  there  came  to  me  again, 

As  if  the  graves  were  filled  with  speech, 

As  if  from  each  a  victor  rose 

All    glorified    with   his    repose, 

A  sound  that  was  not  voice  nor  speech, 

That  told  to  me  the  tale  of  each, 

Of  all  the  countless   sleepers   pale, 

That  slept  by  wood,  or  sea,  or  vale. 

Oh   these  are  they  who  came  from  far, 

From  every  corner  of  this  land, 

To  meet  their  treacherous  foes'  advance, 

Marched  boldly  as  an  avalanche, 

And  won  a  glory  bright  as  stars, 

The  far-off  stars  by  which  they  passed 

From  battlefield  through  prison-bars, 

Where  Immortality  doth  wait, 

And  Fame  stands  sentry  at  the  gate. 

But  long  the  land  was  desolate, 

And  long  the  tents  stood  thick  and  white, 

Like  ghosts  of  mist-wrapped  moon  at  night; 

And  long  the  sentry's   silent   tread 

Kept  steady  marching  to  and  fro, 

And  watched  lest  every  hillside  tree 

Should  hide  the  form  of  stealthy  foe; 

And  watched  the  rocks,  and  gripped  his  steel 

Whenever  breath  or  shadow  fell; 

And  watched  amid  the  frozen  storm, 

When  all  the  world  was  dim  as  death, 

And  warmth  was  chilled  in  every  breath, 

And  Nature  lay  as  in  a  shroud, 

A   frozen,  misty  shroud  of  white; 

And   watched   in   Summer's  sultry  heat, 


79 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


When  all  the  sky  seemed  scorched  with  flame, 

And  burned  at  night  and  noon  the  same. 

Then  came  long  marches  over  sands, 

With  white  dust  filling  all  the  air 

Like  smoke  of  some  old  Trafalgar; 

The  lips  all  parched  with  fever  heat, 

Yet  pressing  on  the  weary  feet; 

And  all  along  the  tiresome  way 

The  patient  horses  sink  and  fall 

And  pant  amid  the  burning  sand, 

Till  strength  to  pant  has  passed  away. 

And  then  the  battle's  front,  and  din 

Of  thousand  cannon  shot  and  shell, 

And  brave  men  fighting  long  and  well, 

And  many  a  white  and  upturned  face, 

And  glazed  eyes  looking  to  the  sun, 

And  many  a  ghastly,  bleeding  wound, 

And  red  blood  washing  all  the  ground. 

But  still  with  arms  as  strong  and  true, 

Unyielding  as  the  sturdy  oak, 

Amid  the  blood  and  battle  smoke, 

Brave  patriot  men  moved  ever  on, 

Bearing  our  starry  Flag  of  Blue, 

The  red  and  white  stripes  gleaming  through 

The  black  and  murky  smoke  of  Avar; 

And  where  it  led  they  followed  on; 

Unfalteringly,    and   bravely    fought, 

Like  lover  fighting  for  his  bride, 

And  had  no  thought,  no  wish  beside. 

They  pushed  the  hosts  of  Treason  back, 

They  made  them  bite  the  very  dust, 

And  then  they  gave  us  Freedom's  trust, 

To  keep  and  hold  for  Freedom's  land. 

And  they  who  bought  our  land  anew, 

Who  gave  their  lives  a  sacrifice, 

They  died  to  give  a  down-trod  race 

'Mid  Freedom's  rightful  heirs  a  place; 

They  died  to  make  each  man  a  king, 

A  mightier  king  than  throne  or  state, 

A  monarch  that  should  dare  and  do 

All  things  for  Liberty's  dear  sake. 

And  thus  with  this  undying  trust, 
This  year,  and  other  years  to  us 
Have  come  and  gone  and  found  us  true, 
Not  one  star  faded  from  the  blue 
Of  the  old  Flag  for  which  we  fought 
As  Freedom's  bright  embodied  thought. 

The  brave  Chief  who  our  armies  led, 

With  heart  as  leal  and  strong  today 

As  when   amid  the  battle's   fray, 

With  sjteady  hand  has  held  the  helm 

While  we  were  drifting  on  the  sands 

And  'mid  the  rocks  where  ships  go  down, 

And  guided  us  where  we  may  lay, 

Nor  sail,  nor  anchor  cast  away, 

Amid  the  shining  isles  of  Peace. 

And  he  whose  white  plume  shone  afar 

Where  shot  fell  thickest,  and  grim  War 

Rained  wounds  and  death  with  grape  and  shell, 


Till  all  was  dark  and  hot  like  hell- 
Brave  soldier  from  the  Buckeye  State, 
His  hand  shall  grasp  the  helm  of  state, 
Shall  guide  to  nobler  triumphs  "still, 
To  bloodless  victories,  which  will 
Bring  grandest   conquest  to  the  right, 
And  make  a  nation's  noblest  might. 

All  hail  to  our  Centennial! 

Let  Liberty  be  glad, 

And  only  tyrants  sad; 

This   great   New  World   is   free, 

The  very  soil  doth  laugh, 

And  all  its  dimples  take 

Of  fruits  and  grain  the  shape, 

And  busy  Industry 

Has  million  forms  aflit, 

And   Manufacture's  whirr 

Has  million  wheels  astir, 

And  busy  Commerce  speeds 

Its  sails  o'er  all  the  seas, 

And  all  the  lands  sit  down, 

Glad  in  our  free  renown, 

Beside  the  cradle  of  our  Liberty; 

And  from  the  East 

The  New  Year  beckons  with  a  smile  of  peace. 

DECORATION  DAY.     (1876.) 

Bend  blue  above  the  Earth,  O  skies! 

And  softest  breezes  kiss  the  shining  air, 

Sweet  flowers  let  floating  incense  rise, 

With  odors  sweet  weave  hymns  of  praise  and  prayer, 

And  question  not  the  fearful  need  that  laid 

These  silent  sleepers  on  these  tentless  plains; 

Their  loss  the  rolling  years  cannot  abate, 

Nor  time  with  all  her  centuries  estimate 

The  sacrifice  which  their  brave  manhood  paid 

To  save  a  nation  from  its  dying  pains. 

Dead  are  they?     No,  in  all  the  blessings  bought 

By  the  rich  promise  of  their  manhood  slain, 

They  live  immortal;  in  the  deeds  they  wrought 

Their  names  are  written  in  undying  light, 

Which  passing  centuries  shall  but  make  more  plain; 

Theirs  is  a  morning  which  shall  know  no  night. 

II.   (1878.) 

This  fair  bright  land  is  the  heritage  of 
Freedom,  and  her  title  deeds  are  writ  in 
Graves.     Today  the  Nation  lives  because  these 
Heroes  died,  and  Freedom  soars  broad-pinioned, 
Strong,  like  to  the   fabled  Phenix  of  the 
Olden  time,  born  yet  anew  from  out  the 
Sacred  ashes  of  these  her  dead  yet  deathless 
Sons. 

We  call  them  dead;  we  walk  with  reverent 
Tread  through  all  the  wooded  aisles  and   grass-paved 
Streets  of  the  silent  cities  where  they  rest; 
With  tender  hands  strew  flowers  so  bright  and 
Fragrant-breath'd  upon  the  grassy  mounds  where 
They  repose  in  dreamless  slumber.     But  dead 
Are   thev? 


80 


The  Death  of  Ellsworth. 


Dieth  the  Sun  when  hidden  by  a  cloud? 

Dieth  the  Moon  when  in  a  misty  shroud 

Her  light  is  veiled?     Or  die  the  Stars  when  day 

Hides  them  with  brightness  from  our  sight  away? 

So  die  they  not,  though  hidden  from  our  sight; 
Each  grave  hath  voice;  each  triumph  of  the  Right 
Is  the  embodied  thought,  the  deathless  I 
Of  heroes  born  to  immortulitv ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  ELLSWORTH.     (1879.) 

It   was  the  hour  of  Freedom's  dark  eclipse, 

The  dawn  of  grim  War's  red  Apocalypse! 

From  the  far  north-lakes  to  the  land  of  palms, 

O'er  Hate's  dull  thunder  rang  the  cry,  "To  arms !" 

And  thicker  than  a  forest  sea  of  pines 

Gleamed   shining  bayonets   along   the   lines 

Of  marching  armies,  moving  firmly  on 

From  East  and  West,  from   Maine  to  Washington. 

The  awful  Southern  cloud,  so  black  and  dun. 

Which  long  had  loomed  with  sullen,  angry  face, 

Had  flashed  at  length  its  furrowed  fire  through  space, 

Had  shaken  with  a  worse  than  earthquake  shock. 

From  proud   old   Sumter's  strong  and   sea-girt   rock, 

With  its  dread  thunders  all  the  startled  land, 

And  at  the  mad  sound  men  had  swift  upsprung 

As  if  a  million  loyal  hearts  were  one, 

And   purpose  firmer  than  the  mountain  rock 

Swelled   into  being  at   the  treacherous  shock; 

Strong  men  stood  up  and  then  with  pale  lips  swore, 

Come  life  or  death,  that  on  the  Old  Flag  o'er 

Their  heads   proud   waving  there  should   never  be 

One  bright  star  less — Country  and  Liberty 

The  dear  old  Banner's  broad  blue  field  should  see 

Washed   from   its   stain  by   life-blood   of  the   free. 

Bright   fell  the  moonlight  on  Potomac's  wave, 

Her  broad,  deep  waters  like  a  silver  sea 

Shone   round   green   banks   and   kissed   the   flower-decked 

lea; 
Spring's     perfect     beauty    crowned     those     star-gemmed 

nights; 

Like  giant  sentry  stood  the  solemn  heights, 
Moveless  and  silent;  the  coming  of  the  Spring 
Had  waked  the  Earth  to  fragrant  blossoming; 
In  the  far  groves  the  nightingale  was  heard, 
Pleased  that  her  song  the  listening  silence  stirred; 
Soft  was  the  whisper  of  the  emerald  leaves, 
As  answering  to  the  Night  Wind's  gentle  breath, 
And  soft  the  babble  of  the  murmuring  brooks, 
Winding  like  silver  threads  through   forest   nooks, 
And  white  within  the  moonlight  like  a  star 
The   grand   dome  of  the  Capitol  was  seen   afar. 
Silence  had  fallen  on  the  city's  streets, 
Save  where  the  sentries  trod  their  lonely  beats, 
Or   where,  like   phantom  cities   stretching  wide 
About    the    Nation's    capital    on    every    side, 
Gleamed   the  white  tents  and  dying  camp-fires'   glow, 
And  armed  men  were  moving  to  and  fro. 


O   fair  the  starlight   o'er  those   Southern   plains, 

And  pure  the  brightness  that  the  moonlight  rains, 

And    grand    the   glory   of   those   circling   hills, 

And  proud  the  city  that  their  circle  fills. 

Green  are  the  forests  that  o'ercrown  the  heights 

Of  Arlington,  yet  every  breeze  of  Night's 

That   sways   those   forests,   stirring  leaf  and   limb, 

Stirs  fears  that  set  even  stout  hearts  trembling; 

For   here  and  there  the   river's  banks   along, 

Do  camp-fires  gleam,  and   Southern   hosts  are  strong. 

What   awful   rain   of  shot   and  bursting  shell, 

What  leaden  hail,  what  burning  fires  of  hell 

Might  hurl  destruction  through  the  startled  air 

Should  rebel  batteries  be  planted  there 

Upon  the   glorious  hilltops  that   uplift 

Their  smooth,  green  crests,  unscarred  by  rocky  cleft — 

()  ye  who  love  the  Old  Flag  and  its  stars, 

Down   with   the   rag  that   bears   the  crimson   bars ! 

Up !  forward !  march !  and  haste  to  occupy 

The    vantage    ground,    or    in    the    effort    die! 

So  when  the  midnight   moon  was  hanging  low, 
Ere    morn    had    set    the    eastern    sky    aglow, 
A  moving  army  down  the  city's  streets 
Passed— one  strong  column  where  the  river  beats 
In  measured  throbs  against  the  Long  Bridge  piers; 
Another,  past   the   Aqueduct,  which  hears 
The  roar  and  swell  of  waters  rushing  by; 
Ana  one,  by   Ellsworth  led,  moved  steadily 
Down  to  the  ship  which  still  at  anchor  lay, 
And  swift  embarked,  then  down  the  stream  away. 
On,  on  until  it  neared  the  city  old- 
Quaint    Alexandria    sitting    in    the    mould 
Of  ancient  years,  her  walls  grown  gray  with  time, 
Her   gabled   roofs  steep   as  a  mountain's   line- 
As  green  with  moss  as  rocks  by  forest  stream; 
Her   crooked    streets   so   narrow   that   they   seem 
Strangers  to  sunlight — the  sidewalks  lay 
Sunken  in  places  as  if  stern  Decay 
Had  sought  to  eat  the  solid  brick  away. 
And  old,  old  houses  by  the  river's  side 
Leaned,  as  if  faint,  towards  the  flowing  tide. 

The  night  had   faded,  and   a  perfect   morn, 
Golden  and  cloudless  in  the  East,  was  born; 
Each  blade  of  grass,  each  fragrant  blossom  stood 
In  the  fair  dawn  a  jeweled  sisterhood. 
Down  by  the  landing  softly  swept  the  tide, 
In  silver  ripples  on  the  green  bank's  side; 
Their  murmur  sounding  'neath  the  gray  old  piers 
As  if  they  held  the  prophecy  of  tears. 

How  in  the  dreamy  silence  of  the  hills 
A  solemn  peace  seemed  brooding.     Nature  fills 
All  things   with   beauty   as   if  God   were   there; 
The  glorious  gush  of  bird-song  filled  the  air, 
The  bees  hummed  lingeringly  amid  the  flowers, 
Whose  dewy   fragrance  filled  the  morning  hours; 
With  tinkling  music  ran  the  laughing  streams, 
And  on  the  hill-tops   Morning's  golden   beams 
Fell    like   a    halo    from    the   eastern   skies; 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


The  bright   Morn  held   no  voiceful   prophecies 
Of  the  dark  shadow  that  ere  noon  should  fall 
Across   the   Nation's  heart;   of  th'   unspoken  call 
Of  stern  Tomorrows  that  the  years  would  bring, 
Of  loyal  millions  with  their  sad  eyes  dim. 

Ah!  so  still,  so  very  still  \\as  the  air; 
Oh!  who  could  dream  that  in  the  daylight  fair 
Hate  was  busy  and  was  building  away 
In   the  slumberous  silence  of  that  sweet   May 
Tts  blood-red  altar!     Oh,  will  no  voice  shout 
To  the  brave  old  ship  that  is  coming  out 
From  the  river's  stream  to  the  landing's  head- 
To  the  brave  young  hero  who  with  martial  tread 
Walks  the  deck— will  no  voice  utter  aloud 
'Neath  that  rebel  flag,  Death  is  weaving  a  shroud? 
No!  Fate  is  voiceless,  and  the  silent  street 
Soon  echoes  the  sound  of  their  coming  feet; 
Pickets  are  posted  and  the  dead  old  town 
Ts  soon  made  for  Freedom   a   camping-ground, 
And   Southern  maidens,  whose  soft  eyes  are  wet 
With  tears  of  parting  all  undried  as  yet, 
Whose  ears  still  hold  the  sound  of  swift  retreat. 
Still   feel   Love's  kisses  on   each  tear-stained   cheek, 
Peep  from  behind  closed  shutters  pale  with  fear. 
Fancying  the  invaders  whose  firm  step  they  hear 
As  something  less  than  human— Northern  hordes 
Untaught   and   savage— men   whose   ruthless  swords 
Love  blood   and   slaughter   and    War's   wild    rapine, 
With  trembling  hands  white  as  the  lily's  sheen. 
Holding  the  curtains  in  their  velvet  palms, 
With  hearts  swift  beating  with  their  wild  alarms, 
And  faces  pale  as  their  own  bosoms'  snow, 
Kneeling,  they  look  to  see  the  coming   foe. 

But  soon,  as  if  upon  the  black  midnight 

Had  dropped  the  brightness  of  the  noontide's  light, 

As  passes  when  the  summer  sunshine  glows 

On  the  far  frozen  arctic  land  of  snows, 

The  long,  black  night,  unbroken  by  a  day, 

Passed  the  pale  specter  of  their  dread  away. 

No  vulgar  rabble  met  their  frightened  gaze, 

No   ragged   mob   its   lawlessness   displays, 

But  staunch  as  the  lofty  pines  that  rise 

An  emerald  wall  against  the  sunrise  skies, 

Erect  and  firm,  with  quick  yet  measured  tread, 

Came  the  Zouaves  by  brave  young  Ellsworth  led; 

His  manly  beauty  grand  as  'neath  Southern  skies 

Ere  ripened  into  splendor.     His  brave  look  defies 

Danger  and  death.     His  firm  lips  wear  the  seal 

Of  strength  and  tenderness.     The  cannon's  peal 

Would  belch  its  thunders  never  at  his  back; 

His  feet  would  foremost  tread  the  fiery  track 

Where  War's  red  scythe  mows  down  its  swaths  of  slain 

As  mows  the  reaper  Autumn's  fields  of  grain, 

And  his  strong  arm  would  foremost  move  to  bless 

Or  friend  or  foe  in  need  or  helplessness. 

Then  sad  eyes  brighten  and  faint  color  steals 
To  lip  and  cheek;  that  stealthy  look  reveals 
The  soldiers'  manhood;  half  their  terrors  cease, 
As  if  such  presence  stirred  the  bells  of  Peace. 


Yet  Southern  hate  and  Southern  blood  were  warm, 
And  like  the  swift   red  lightnings  of  the  storm, 
Hidden  within  the  blackness  of  the  cloud, 
Outbursting  with  fierce  thunders  crashing  loud, 
While  tempests  shake  great   forests  in  their  grasp, 
And  lash  the  seas  to  mountains  ere  they  pass; 
So  in  the  pause  of  conflict,  gathering  strength, 
Broke  Treason's  thunders  o'er  the  land  at  length. 

O  blossoming  roses  red  and  white, 

O  violets  blue  as  the  skies  above, 

O  gentle  maidens  pale  with  fright, 

O   all-voiced   things   of   Peace   and   Love! 

Cry,  cry  aloud  to  the  sunny  air! 
O  wandering  winds  find  voice  and  speech, 
For  Ellsworth's  steps  are  tending  whore 
Death  waits— his  single  hand  would  reach 

That  bannered  insult  to  the  free 

That   floats   from  the  old   moss-grown   roof 

Of  Alexandria's  hostelrie, 

Whore  Treason  shows  its  cloven  hoof. 

His  swift  feet  climb  the  winding  stairs— 
Ah!  to  what   undreamed  heights  they  led! 
With  one  strong  grasp  the  flag  he  tears 
From  the  tall  flag-staff  overhead. 

The  loyal  winds  sweep  round  him  there, 
The  sunshine  crowns  his  head  with  gold. 
But  brighter  still,  and  still  more  fair 
Shines  round  him  Fame's  grand  aureole. 

Stood  he  there  erect   and  strong, 

Hating  Treason,  hating  Wrong, 

Doing  duty  as  his  wont, 

Facing  there  the  awful   front 

Treason  offered  to  her  foes. 

With  that  banner  on  his  arm, 

Downward  to  his  doom  he  goes. 

Nevermore  shall  light  of  day 

On  his  living  face  be  shed, 

Half-way   down   that   dark  stairway 

One  swift  shot  and  he  is  dead! 

Dead!  the  bullet  in  his  breast! 

Dead!  with  th'  grand,  calm  face  upturned, 

And  the  hero  heart   at   rest, 

Which  so  late  had  proudly  spurned, 

In  its  self-forgetfulness, 

In   its   "unrevengeful  calm," 

All  that   Southern  hate  confessed, 

All  the  might  of  Treason's  arm. 

They  bore  him   tenderly   away 
Down  to  the  river  where  the  sobbing  tide 
Broke  in  the  brightness  of  that  perfect  day 
In  low,  sad  rhythm  on  the  old  ship's  side; 
The  grand  old  banner  hid  its  starry  light 
Half  down  the  tall  mast's  length— sad  sound 
Of  music  and  of  muffled  drum 
Filled    all    the    wide,    deep    silence    round- 
All  other  sounds  were  hushed  and  dumb. 


82 


Gar  field. 


Up  the  great  river  moved  the  dead  along. 

Beneath  him  all  the  water's  pulses  beat, 

While  the  low  murmurs  of  their  dirge-like  song 

To  the  far  sea  in  solemn  chorus  sweep. 

O  how  the  Nation's  Capital 

Stretched  out  its  hand  to  him ! 

How  wept  the  young,  the  good,  the  fair, 
While  stern  men's  eyes  grew  dim! 
How  noble  was  his  coffined   face, 
How   grand   the  starry   pall 
Our  mourning  Mother  gave  her  son, 
Among   her   first   to    fall ! 

Out   of  his   dying  grew  the  life 

Of  purpose   grand   and  high, 

Out   of  his   dying   Freedom   spoke, 

And   free  men   gave   reply. 

They    spoke   on    bloody   battlefields, 

They   spoke  through   prison   bars, 

They  spoke   till   Peace   flung   wide  again 

The  grand  old  Stripes  and  Stars. 


GARFIELD.     (1881.) 

It   is  God's  will,   and   so  it   must   be  right, 

Although   at   every   pore  the   Nation   bleeds; 

But  God  looks  onward,  past  the  brief  dark  night 

Of  Time,  and  while  we  blindly  grope, 

Crying   for  light,   His  sunrise  crowns  the  hills. 

And  then  we  see  what  love  His  purpose  fills, 

How  better   far   His   wisdom   than   our  hope. 

No   coffin-lid   can   on   his   manhood   close, 
No  dead  white  silence  on  his  name  can   fall; 
In  the  grand  stillness  of  his  last  repose 
He  lives  among  us  mightier  today 
Than  when  in  battle  Freedom's  hosts  he  led, 
Or,  thunder-tongued   in   eloquence  of  speech, 
Spoke  words  undying  in  the  Nation's  ear — 
Words  that  all  coming  centuries  shall  hear. 

The  grave  of  Garfield!     Oh,  such  graves  we  need 

As  stepping-stones  on  which  the  race  may  climb 

To  the  grand  heights  where  Freedom's  steps  shall  lend; 

They  are  our  Jacob's  ladder  to  the  skies— 

To  the  clear  heavens  of  Freedom's  shining  day. 

Such  dead  die  not,  though  hidden   from  our  sight; 

Such  graves  have  voice;  each  triumph  of  the  Right 

Is  the  embodied  thought,  the  deathless  I 

Of  heroes  born  to  immortality. 

Mock  not  his  memory  with  mere  idle  speech! 
Let  acts,  not  words,  the  Nation's  sorrow  tell— 
Great  acts,  and  true,  that  shall  uplift  as  well 
Towards  the  grand,  pure  heights  on  which  he  stood. 
Guard  well  the  memory  of  his  noble  life. 
Keep  fresh  and  green  as  heritage  for  Time 
His  manhood's  greatness  and  his  deeds  sublime. 
Friend!   Soldier!   Statesman!  Chief!  hail— and   farewell! 


GREATNESS.*     (1882.) 

1  looked  into  the  night, 

After  the  sunset's  glow  had  fled. 

And  there  before  me  lay 

A  revelation  by  the  darkness  made — 

The  mystery  of  the  skies, 

The   glory  of  the   Milky  Way, 

The  star-crowned  heights 

The  longest  life  of  years 

Would    not    suffice   to    reach, 

Glimmering  through  the  blue, 

Just   faintly  shining  through 

Like  atoms,  those  great  vast  globes  of  light. 

And   what  of  these?     The   far-off  stars 

Shall    fall    like   tears    from   off   Creation's    face, 

And  of  their  shining  glory  there  shall  be  no  trace. 

I   saw   a  man   elate 

With  pomp  and  kingly  power, 

Of  thought   the  potentate — 

The  nations  reverenced  him; 

Of   Nature  he   was   king, 

Her  laws  he  read  as  from  an  open  book, 

Her  mightiest    forces  took, 

Like  harnessed  steeds,  to  do  his  will, 

Making   the  lightnings  thrill 

With  swift   intelligence  of  thought, 

And   the  still   air  he  taught 

The  mystery  of  speech, 

Until    it    came    to   be 

A   vast,   grand   whispering   gallery. 

Yet  he,  with  eloquence  as  silver-toned  as  song, 

Died,  life's  noblest  mission  yet  unwrought, 

He  gave  to  lonely  griefs  nor  help  nor  thought. 

Before  me  stood  a  woman,  pale 
As  the  pure  lily's  white-tipped   face; 
Genius,   nor   aught   of  beauty's   grace 
Had  she,  so  lowly  born; 
The  world  could  see  no  glory  in  the  strife 
Of  her  meek  contests— life 
Brought  no  renown,  and   fame  no  wreath 
Of  shining  bay  or  laurel  leaf. 
But  she  had   dropped  like  dew 
Her  tender  speech;  she  knew 
The   greatness   of   the   sad   soul's   needs, 
And  her  sweet  words  and  kindly  deeds 
Had  softened  widows'  woes. 
And  orphans'  blessings  round  her  rose, 
And  men,  too,  who  had  borne  such  weight 
Of   sorrow  that   it   seemed   as   Fate 
Were  God,  and  God  were  naught, 
Had  by  her  such  sweet  faith  been  taught 
That  sorrow  had  for  them  a  blessing  wrought. 
And  God  shall  write  her  great, 
Unto  life's  noblest  mission  true, 
That  mission  which  is  only  but  to  do 
Ever  the  duty  that  lies  nearest  you. 
•  In  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


- 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


"THE  STAR  OF  EMPIRE."     (1885.) 
(Read  before  the  Ohio  Association  in  Los  Angeles.) 

Fair  California,  sitting  by  the  sea, 

With  germ  of  Empire  budding  silently, 

Thy  skies  so  bright  they  do  but  seldom  bear 

But  floods  of  sunshine  in  their  golden  air; 

Thy  soil  so  rich  its  fruitful  hills  and  plains 

Seem  never  thirsting  for  soft  summer  rains; 

Sweet  singers  in  the  old  Past  sang  of  thee, 

And  ships  made  paths  across  the  pathless  sea 

To   reach   thy   golden   shores,   for  bards  had  told 

Of  thy  sun-flooded  plains  and  mountains  gaunt  and  old; 

And  those  brown  Children  of  the  Sun  had  dreamed 

Of  thy  fair  skies,  until  to  them  they  seemed 

Not  quite  of  earth,  for  their  wise  ones  had  said: 

"Close  by  the  gates  of  Paradise,  sometimes  ajar, 

Broods  endless  summer  o'er  a  wondrous  land, 

With  shining  skies  and  golden  strand, 
And  beauty  like  the  undimmed  brightness  of  a  star." 

Out  from  the  valleys  where  the  skies  are  old, 

Yet  bend  in  varying  splendor  o'er  the  earth, 
Where  Freedom's  steady  pulse  has  long  been  told 

In  deeds  heroic  and  in  patriot  worth, 
The  State  of  Brough,  of  Garfield  and  of  Grant- 
Proud   galaxy  of  Freedom's   noblest   sons, 
We  come  upon  these  sunset  shores  to  plant, 

Not  only  'neath  these  glowing  summer  skies, 
Our  broad  rich  vineyards  which  by  sunshine  kissed 
Yield  ripened   fruits  which  gleam  like  amethysts; 
Not  only  orchards,  where  like  golden  suns, 

Through  the  cool  emerald  of  their  thousand  leaves 
Glows  the  ripe  orange,  and  with  harvests  done, 

Like   mighty   pyramids   lie  our   ripened   sheaves; 
Not   only   to  build   cities   that   shall   stand 

And  face  the  centuries  in  their  pomp  and  pride, 
Come  we  as  pilgrims  to  this  sunset  strand, 

Where  the  brown  Children  of  the  Sun  have  died 
To  give  us  place — O  not  for  this  they  passed. 

'Tis  not  for  this  dead  ages  serve  today, 
And  sleeping  centuries  lift  their  heavy  lids 

To  watch  the  march  of  Empire's  westward  way; 
'Tis  not   for  this  that  like  some  sculptor  great, 

Lifting  with  pride  the  veil  from  off  the  stone, 
Reveals  the  colossal  statue  insensate 

Yet  with   a   god-like   grandeur   round   it   thrown. 
Time  lifts  the  curtains  of  this  Sunset  West, 

Flings   open   wide   its   mountain-guarded   gates, 

While  all  the  land  from  its  tranced  slumber  wakes— 
From   the  long   night   of   its   unhindered   rest. 
But  here  sits  pregnant   Empire  young  and  fair, 

The  sun  of  Progress  kissing  her  white  face 
As  she  makes  ready  for  her  coming  heir — 

The   grand   New   Life  to  which   the   Old   gives   place. 
'Tis  ours  to  watch  with  her,  to  build  the  State, 

To  mould   its   laws,   and  blaze  the  path   for   Right, 
Our  sunrise  and   our   sunset  homes  to  mate — 

Twin   in   their   glory   and   their   patriot   might. 


But  here  beneath  these  glowing  skies 

Of  cloudless  summer  glory, 
We'll  ne'er  forget  the  Buckeye  State, 

Nor    fail  to   sing  its  story. 
The  State  of  strong  and  stalwart  men, 

Of   statesmen   and   of   heroes, 
Of  prairie  land  and  forest  glen, 

Of  commerce-laden   rivers; 
Of  lakes  that   lie  like  spreading  seas, 

Ploughed  by  the  keels  of  Plenty; 
Foremost  in  warfare  with  the  Wrong 

Her  sleepless  sons  stand  sentry. 
An  athlete  on  the  fields  of  life, 

With  muscles  never  tiring, 
With  heart  and  brain  and  brawny  arm 

To  grander  deeds  aspiring. 
Oh,  here  beneath  these  glowing  skies 

Of  cloudless  summer  glory, 
We'll  ne'er   forget  the   Buckeye   State, 

Nor  fail  to  tell  its  story. 

THE  MEN  AND  THE  DAYS  OF  '61.     (1885.) 

The  fragrant  breath  of  flowery  June  had  filled 

the  Summer  skies, 
And  the  world  had  waked  to  beauty  as  to  some 

rare  and   fresh  surprise 
Of  new  creation,  grand  and  sweet,  like  Eden's 

happy  morning, 
As  if  again  the  world  were  young,  and  sinless 

days   were  dawning. 
A  broad,  bright  river  stretched   away  with   silver 

on  its  breast, 
And  in  the  purpling  distance  rose  the  lofty 

mountain's  crest. 
A  wide,   fair  valley  gemmed  with  flowers  and 

dewy  emerald  grasses, 
A   long   white   ribbon   of   a   road   adown    the   valley 

passes ; 

And  there,  'mid  stately  elms  and  oaks  and  som 
ber  pine-trees  tall, 

Stood  the  mansion  in  the  valley,  a  grand,  ances 
tral  hall. 
The  ivy  vines  crept  o'er  it,  and  the  roses  hedged 

it  round, 
And  the  lilac   shed   its   fragrance,   and  the  lilies 

bent  them  down 

To  kiss   the   fragrant  mignonette,  and   the  blush 
ing  pinks  that   grew 
Along  the  border  of  the  walk  that  ran  the  garden 

through. 
The  apple-trees  were  all  in  white,  and  the 

blooming  peach-trees  shed 
Their  dainty  blossoms  all  along  the  wide,  sweet 

garden  bed; 
And  like  winged  jewels,  in  and  out  amid  the 

roses   rare, 
Fluttered   the   shining  humming-birds,   like 

things  of  light  and  air. 
A  sparkling  fountain  shed  its  rain  in  murmurs 

soft   and   sweet, 


84 


The  Men  and  the  Days  of  '<>] 


And    laughing   children    stretched    their   hands   its 

shining  drops  to  meet, 

Or  ran  in  romping  gladness  along  the  garden  ways, 
Like  sunheams  flitting  down  the  paths  while 

their  stately   father  plays, 

As  if  a  boy  himself  again,  at  merry  hide-and-seek, 
And   like  white  lilies   through  the  boughs   their 

laughing  faces  peep; 
And  their  young  and  gentle  mother,  still 

beautiful   and   fair, 
Looks  down  upon  her  treasures  with  a  smile 

that    is   a   prayer. 

A  small,  rude  house  stands  by  the  mill, 

1Tis  homely,  plain   and  humble, 
Yet  happy  groups  of  boys  and   girls 

Within   its   grasses  tumble. 
They're  full  of  life  and  careless  glee, 

Of  boyish  pranks   and  laughter; 
Today  is  bright,  it  is  enough, 

They   care   not   what   comes   after. 
Their  mother  bends  above  her  tub, 

A   meek  and   brown-eyed  woman, 
One  used  to  toil   and  daily  cares — 

Wife   of   a  sturdy   yeoman, 
Whose   brawny   arms   and   horny   hands 

Do   daily  toil   and   labor; 
A  kindly  husband,   father,   friend, 

An   honest   man   and   neighbor. 
His  only  rest  at  sunset  hour, 

Between  the  night   and  morning, 
Or  when  the  blessed  Sabbath  comes 

With   sacred    gladness    dawning. 
Then   with  his   wife   upon   his  arm, 

The  children   following  after, 
He  walks  to  church  in   full  content 

To  the  music  of  their  laughter. 
He  is  a  man  of  heart  and  brain, 

As  well  as  brawn  and  muscle, 
Loving  the  quiet   of  his  home 

Far  better  than  the  bustle 
Of  larger  life  in  cities  led 

'Mid  scenes  of  speculation. 
Yet  his  sturdy  arm  would  bravely  strike 

For  the  safety  of  the  nation. 
Down  where  the  meadows  run  to  meet  the  green 

banks  of  the  river, 
And   where  the   golden   sunrise  lights  in   shining 

arrows  quiver; 

Where  the  June  blossoms  fill  the  air  with   fra 
grance  and  with  sweetness, 
And  happy  choirs  of  birds  pour   forth  their 

songs  in  rich  completeness. 
The  little  garden,  bright  with  flowers  between 

its    emerald    hedges 
Where  roses  in  the  June's  soft  breath  stand 

bowing  to  the  sedges, 
Stands  a  cottage  in  the  shadow  of  the  beeches 

and  the  pine, 

Covered  o'er  with  honeysuckles  and  the  morn 
ing-glory's  vine, 


To  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  nil  its  windows 

open  flung, 
And  the  bright  canaries'  cages  in  the  open 

spaces  hung, 

While  singing  at  the  window  to  the  April  blos 
soms  nodding, 
With  a  voice  as  clear  and  sweet  as  any  wildwood 

robin, 
Her  dimpled   fingers   pink   and  white  thrust   out 

amid   the   roses, 
Where   a    moment,   like   a    snowflake.   her    soft, 

white  hand  reposes, 
Leans  the  pretty  housewife  in  her  perfect  girlish 

beauty, 
Looking  far  too  slight  to  bear  any  heavy  cross 

of  duty; 
While  below,  her  husband,  turning  the  fresh 

earth  amid  the  roses, 
Thinks   among   the   blossoms   there   none  so   sweet 

a  flower  discloses. 

Oh,  homes  like  Eden   folded  within  the  Summer's 
beauty, 

To  you  will  come  like  trumpet  note  the  solemn 
voice  of  Duty; 

For  even   now  upon   the  breeze   its   sound   is  surely 
waking, 

And   loving  hearts   in  thousand  homes   their  sad 
farewells  are  taking. 

From  our  shattered  ranks  and  armies  is  heard 
its  solemn  pleading, 

From  the  thousands  of  our  dying  that  on  battle 
fields  are  bleeding; 

From  the   prison   pens   and   dungeons  where  our 
soldiers  starve  for  bread, 

And  grow  mad   for  lack  of  water,  vermin-cov 
ered,    worse    than    dead; 

From  the  Southland's  far  plantations,  where  the 
black   man  is  a  slave — 

Whipped  and  sold,  a  thing,  a  chattel,  that  his 
manhood  cannot  save — 

These  are  pleading,  and  the  echo  fills  the  sad 
dened  air  with  pain, 

Stabs  the  pulses  of  the  Nation  till  it  bleeds  in 
every  vein. 

Even  now  the  summons  cometh,  even  now  the 
shadow    falls 

Just  within  the  golden  sunset,  lo!  the  dread  To 
morrow  calls. 

A  month  of  days  had  melted  into  nights  and 

nights  to  mornings  turned, 
Till  o'er  that  quiet  valley  July's  late  sunlight 

burned. 
The  meadow  grasses  quivered  in  the  scorching 

rain   of  heat, 
But  below  the  shining  river  ran  in  murmurs 

cool  and  sweet, 
And  beyond,  across  the  meadows,  like  a  l>order 

cool   and    fair, 


85 


Poems  of  Pat  riot  ism. 


Rose  the  wooded-  hills,  the  forests  like  an  army 

standing  there. 
'Neath  their  soft   and  leafy  shadow  the  silver 

church-spire  shone, 
Touched   by   wandering   sunbeams   lurking   'mid 

its  gray  white  walls  of  stone. 
Last  eve  across  the  valley  had  the  church-bell's 

echo  rung, 
Rippling  through  the  sunset  stillness,  hushing 

all   the  busy   hum 
Of  village  life;  through  lanes  and  sweet  byways 

and  pleasant  street, 

Had  come  the  sturdy  tramping  of  many  hun 
dred   feet, 
In  answer  to  the  ringing  and  the  calling  of  the 

bell- 
Tramp,   tramp,  tramp!  how   the  coming   numbers 

swell ! 
There  had  been  news  of  battle    and  of  our  army's 

bloody   rout, 
And  men  seemed  to  catch  the  echo  of  the  Rebel 

triumph    shout; 
And  it  set  their  hearts  to  beating,  and   it   filled 

their  souls  with  fire — 
Bull  Run's  blood-red  battlefield  stirred  the  hearts 

of  son  and  sire, 
And  from  princely  hall   and  cottage,  and   from 

humble  wayside  cot, 
As  one  man  the  men  had  gathered  all  with  souls 

that   faltered  not; 
And    a   regiment   enlisted    from   the   country   and 

the  town — 
Men  of  brain  and  brawn  and   muscle,  men   of 

wealth  and  of  renown- 
Men   of  strong  and   steady   purpose,   with   the 

horny  hands  of  toil- 
Nature's   noblemen    whose   birthright   was   to 

plough  and  till  the  soil. 
Yet  beneath  the  sweat  of  labor  in  these  manly 

breasts  were  set 
Hearts  of  oak  whose  loyal  fires  steeled  each 

thinking  bayonet. 
Out  from  the  grand  old  hall  their  colonel  with 

his   noble   face  and  mien, 
And  the  stalwart,  sturdy  yeoman  in  his  foremost 

ranks  is  seen, 

And  the  brave  and  lion-hearted  from  the  cot 
tage  o'er  the  way, 
Comes  with  stately  step  and  steady  to  marshal 

for  the   fray. 
Beat,  beat,  beat!  to  the  rattle  of  the  drum  and 

the  ringing  of  the  bell, 
Drum,  drum,  drum !  how  the  surging  numbers 

come  and 'the  hosts  of  Freedom  swell, 
How  the  banners  float  aloft,  how  the  shining 

bayonets  gleam, 

As  the  regiment   is   gathered  on  the  shaded  vil 
lage  green. 

Then  a  pause,  a  sudden  stillness,  filling  all  the 
summer  air, 


And  the  old  and  white-haired  pastor  lifts  his  fer 
vent  voice  in  prayer: 

"O  Our  Father!  God  of  nations,  God  of  battles, 
hear  us  pray, 

And   work    for  us   Thy   miracle   of   loving   care 
from  day  to  day; 

Our  Country  calls,  and  here  this  morn,  on   Free 
dom's  holiest  altar 

We  lay  our  dearest  sacrifice  with  faith  that  does 
not    falter. 

"O  Thou  who  for  the  love  of  Thy  poor  human 
children  bleeding 

Hung  on  the  cross  and  died  to  live,  now  for  us 
interceding, 

We  pray  that  on  the  march  and  on  the  battle's 
gory  field, 

Where  Death  turns  up  his   furrows,  be  Thou  their 
hiding  place  and  shield; 

Tread  down  as  in  a  wine-press  the  flaunting  Stars 
and  Bars, 

And   soon   let    Peace   fling   wide   again   blest    Free 
dom's   Stripes   and   Stars." 

'Twas  thus  the  Nation  sprang  to  arms  when 

Freedom's   need  was  spoken 
In  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  when  Sumter's 

walls  were  broken, 
In  the  challenge  of  the  bugle,  in  the  rattle  of  the 

drum, 
In  the  ranks  of  gathering  foemen  massing 

strong  in  'Sixty-One, 
With  that  bastard  flag  uplifted,  flaunting  insult 

to  the   free — 
Flag  of  bondage,  flag  of  Treason,  with  its  bars 

of   infamy. 

Drum,  drum,  drum!  how  the  very  air  is  stung 

till  its  pulses  quiver! 

How  the  echoes  fill  the  valley,  how  they  trem 
ble  down   the  river ! 
How   they    stir    from   North   to    Southland!   how 

they  thrill  from   East  to  West! 
How  they  sound   from  o'er  the  prairies  and   from 

every   mountain's   crest! 
Was   there   ever   seen   such   marching — faces 

steady  to  the  foe, 
Sire  and  son  together  moving  with  their  pulses 

all  aglow? 
With  the  Nation  bowed  and   pleading,  bending 

on  its  knees  to  pray, 
Was  the  great  Grand  Army  mustered  and 

strengthened  for  the  fray. 

What  of  the  years  that   followed,  O  soldiers,  tried 

and  true? 
What  the  record  of  our  army— the  Grand  Army 

of  the  Blue? 
Answer  for  us,  Lookout  Mountain,  Gettysburg 

and  Donelson, 
And  the  vales  of  Old  Virginia,  where  with  blood 

the  rivers  run; 


86 


ARLINGTON.     MEMORIAL  ARCH— TOMB  OF  THE  UNKNOWN  DEAD. 


The  Xation'x  Dead. 


Let  the  answer  come  undying  from  the  March 

unto  the  Sea— 
Where  it  curbed  the  strength  of  Treason,  where 

our  banner   floated    free — 

From  the   rushing  Shenandoah,   from   the  gleam 
ing   Rapidan, 
From  the  bloody  battlefield  saved   by   ride  of 

Sheridan ; 
From   the  scene  at   Appomattox!   let    the-   triumph 

answer   ring, 
Where  our  army  with  its  Leader,  mightier  stood  than 

conquering  king. 
Grant   at   Appomattox!     Sound    it!     Ring   it    ;ill 

the  ages   down — 

Mercy  was  the  Victor's  mantle,  generous   kind 
ness  was  his  crown, 
Grander  'mid  his  host  of  heroes,  'mid  his  ranks 

of  tattered   blue, 
With  their  war-worn  riddled  banners,  rent  by 

grapeshot  through  and  through- 
Grander    than   the   mightiest    heroes    Iliads    have 

ever  sung, 

Grant,  the  Soldier  of  the  Nation,  with  the  bat 
tles  he  has  won. 
O  great  Grand  Army!  who  today  your  yearly 

trust  are  keeping, 
With  your  swords  within  their  scabbards  and 

your  trusty  muskets  sleeping; 
O  great  Grand  Army !  lying  low  on  tentless  fields 

of  battle; 
O  martyrs!  who  in  prison-pens  heard  not  the 

rifle's   rattle, 
Whose  souls  passed  out  through  prison  bars  to 

waiting  thrones  of  glory, 
Time's  latest  ages  still  shall  keep  the  splendor 

of  your  story. 
Then  raise  your  starry  banner,  strike  up  with 

fife   and   drum, 
As  with  fragrant  wreaths  and  roses  the  grateful 

millions  come 
To  the  Meccas  of  our  Freedom,  to  the  altars  of 

our  trust, 

To  the  Nation's  shrines  made  noly  by  our  hero 
soldiers'  dust ! 

THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

(Memorial  Day,  1884.) 

Men  sprang  from  farm  and  shop  and   forge, 

their  loved  and   homes   forsaking, 
When  Treason's  voice  in  cannon  shot  from 

Sumter's  walls  was  breaking; 
They   marched   in   columns   and   in    ranks 

beneath  our  starry  banner, 
From  East  and  West,  from  North  and  South, 

from  town  and  wild  savannah. 
The  Nation  with  its  lifted  hands  and  voice 

of  solemn  pleading, 
Gathered  her  best  and  bravest  sons,  the 

sacrifice  unheeding; 


"Go   forth  and   battle   for  the   Right,   give   up 

the  Union  never! 
And  shrined   within  our  hearts  you'll  live 

forever  and  forever." 

Oh,  never  shall  our  hearts   forget  the  thrills 

of  exultation 
That  like  a  mighty  tide  swept  o'er  the 

pulses   of   the   nation, 
When  came  like  joyous  trumpet-note,  or 

glorious  paean  swelling 
In  every  heart,  and  filled  with  hope  the 

lowliest  loyal  dwelling: 
No  more  for  us  the  cannon's  roar,  nor  shot 

nor  shell  shall  rattle, 
No  more  the  cruel  shafts  of  death  upon 

the  field  of  battle, 

For  lo!  at  Appomattox  is  our  crown  of  tri 
umph  won, 
And  the  flaunting  flag  of  Treason  into  the 

dust   is  flung. 
Loud  our  paeans   swelled   and   louder,  and 

our   banners    proudly    gleamed, 
Like  the  pillar  of  Jehovah,  o'er  the  faces 

bronzed  and  seamed 
By  the  awful  strife  of  battle,  by  the  toilsome 

march  and  pen 
Of  the  filthj-  Southern  prisons,  where  by 

thousands   died   our   men, 
When  back   from  Appomattox  and  the 

sunny  Southland  far, 
With  their  shattered  ranks  and  legions, 

came  our  heroes  of  the  war. 
But  our  hearts  beat  warm  and  tender  for 

the  comrades  lying  low 
On  the  tentless  fields  of  glory  where  the 
sighing  south  winds  blow. 


Bring  spotless  lilies,  opening  buds  and  roses, 
Heap  high  the  garlands  where  our  heroes  lay, 

Rich  be  the  fragrance  where  their  dust  reposes, 
Green  lie  the  laurel,  amaranth  and  bay, 

O    spirit    of    our    martyrs!  ye    mighty    unseen    throng, 
Ye  army  of  the  faithful  who  to  all  time  belong, 

From  far  Atlantic  waters  to  these  peaceful  sunset  gates, 
Love  her  tender  watch  is  keeping,  Glory  round  your 
ashes  waits. 


OUR  IMMORTAL  DEAD. 
(Decoration  Day,  1886.) 

O  the  earth  is  fair  and  sweet, 

The  world   is   full   of  life, 
Yet,  shining  Sun,  beneath  our  feet, 
Beneath   where  emerald   grasses   meet, 
And  all   Spring's   fairest  blossoms  blow, 
The  Nation's  loyal  dead   sleep  low 

Within   four  hundred  thousand  graves. 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


A  quarter  century  hath  fled, 

In  days,  and  nights,  and  months,  and  years, 
Since  first  we  laid  away  our  dead 

Bathed  in  a  Nation's  tears. 
Flowers  bloom  within   the  Summer's  calm, 

Birds  sing  within  the  leafy  trees, 
And   daisies   breathe  their  tranquil   psalm 

To  every  passing  breeze, 
And  smiling  harvests  pour  their  tides 

Of   rippling   wheat   and    golden   corn 
Above  the  plains  where  heroes  died 

In  grim  War's  blood-red  morn, 
When  Treason  loosed  the  hounds  of  strife, 

And   Slaughter  poured  its  rain  of  fire, 
Seeking  to  quench  the  Nation's  life — 

Make  Freedom's   fondest  hopes  expire. 

O  heroes!  soldiers!  royal  braves! 

'Tis   Freedom's  air  we  breathe  today, 

Because  you  gave  your  lives  away 

For   Freedom's  sake. 

Blow,  bugles,  blow! 
Ring,  sacred  chimes, 
From  land  of  palm  to  land  of  pines! 
We  hold  them   dear  who  sleep  so  low— 
The  blessed  dead  who  loved  us  so, 
And  with  each  coming  year  we'll  tell 

The  deeds  they  wrought, 

The   glory  bought 
By  their  life's  blood  and  pain. 
O  hero  soldiers!  not  in  vain 
The  wounds,  the  pain,  the  blood  ye  spilled, 
The  sacred  graves  that  ye  have  filled. 

They're  Freedom's  harvest  seed. 
This  land,  thick-sown  with  martyrs'  graves, 
Is  Freedom's  consecrated  ground. 
Ring,  bells,  and  tell  to  winds  that  blow, 
To  mighty  tides  that  round  us  flow, 
That   this   is   Freedom's   land— 
Your  deathless  gift  of  sacrifice. 

O   dead!     O   braves! 

Each  sacred  grave 

Holds   Honor's  shield  and   Honor's  trust, 
And  bending  low  at  Freedom's  shrine, 
E'en  as  a  maiden  counts  her  beads, 
Will  we  rehearse  your  noble  deeds, 
And  guard  your  sacred  dust ! 


GRANT. 
(Impromptu.    1885.) 

Ah !    why  do  not  the  wires  break,  and  the  very  lightnings 

quiver 

With  the  sadness  of  the  tidings  that  they  bear— 
With   the   sorrow   of   the   message   that   they're   flashing 

everywhere, 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  northern  lake  to  river, 
And  to  the  sunny  Southland,  broad  and   fair? 


Alas!  how  the  Nation's  heart  bleeds,  and  its  sons  their 

heads  are  bowing, 

As  the  saddened  wail  is  echoed  to  the  sky, 
As  from  lip  to  lip  the  mournful  tidings  fly, 
Like  a  crushing  tidal  billow  flowing, 
Or  a  sudden  smiting  arrow  from  the  sky. 

GRANT  DEAD  AND  TRIUMPHANT.     (1885.) 

To  Mount  McGregor's  silent  height 

An  unseen  army  came, 
In  the  splendor  of  the  morning, 

When  the  trees  were  touched  with  flame 
With  the  golden  glowing  glory 

Of  the  unhindered  sun, 
And  the  bending  arches  of  the  heavens 

Like  a  vaulted  roof  were  hung. 

There  was  no  sound  of  marching, 

And  no  tread  of  coming  feet, 
And  no  banners  met  the  vision 

From  the  lofty  mountain's  sweep; 
There  was  no  sound  of  bugle, 

And  no  echo  of  the  drum, 
And  no  voice  of  thundering  cannon 

Was  by   answering  echoes  flung. 

From   the   trees   rang   glorious   anthems 

Of  the  bird-life  glad  and  free, 
And  the  Summer  breeze  caressing 

Touched  each  forest-leaf  and  tree, 
While  the  shadowy  battalions 

From  the  summits  of  the  sky 
Swept  silently  as  the  sunlight 

In  their  lengthening  columns  by. 

"Let  us  have  peace!"  the  watchword  then 

Along  the  mountain  height; 
"Let  us  have  peace!"  the  end  had  come, 

Triumphant  was  his  flight. 
The  warrior  rose,  saluted  Death, 

And  then  his  foe  withdrew. 
Heaven's  gates  swung  wide,  and,  victor  still, 

The  Nation's  Chief  passed  through. 

Soldiers  of  Grant!     Shades  of  our  heroes! 

As   from  the  far  shores  they  rallied  round, 
What  a  welcome  they  gave  to  the  hero  of  battles, 

As  he  stood   there  with  peace  eternally   crowned. 
He  fought  it  out  on  the  line  of  patience  heroic, 

He  climbed  the  far  heights  of  Faith  and  of  Trust, 
And  life's  shattered  tent  he  left  gladly  behind  him— 

He  is  done  with  earth's  battles,  so  lay  dust  unto  dust. 

THE  DAYS  OF  '64.     (1886.) 

The  farmer  swings  his  scythe  in  the  meadow, 

the  bees  in  the  clover  hum, 
The  scent  of  the  flowers  the  hills  float  over, 

the  sleeping  noon  has  come; 
A  thin,  intangible  haze  lies   dreaming  on 

river  and  hill, 


The  Boys  of  '64. 


And,  pierced  by  the  sun's  hot  lances,  the 

pulseless  air  lies  still. 
Still,  save   for  a  silver  shimmer  that  dances 

before  his  sight, 
As  he  leans  on  his  scythe  and  wipes  his  brow 

with  a  brush  of  his  shirt-sleeve  white- 
Leans  and  listens,  as  if  he  heard  a  sound 

that  lie  did  not  hear— 
The  sound  of  cannon,  the  tramp  of  feet  and 

the  shout   of  the  cannoneer. 

While  he  stands,  comes  news  of  the  battle 

fought  so  late  in  the  South— 
'Twas  a  brave  fight  and  we  won  it,   facing 

Death   at  the  cannon's  mouth; 
Our  troops  were  mown  down  in  swaths  like 

the  grass  here,  there  at  the  South, 
But  the  living  filled  up  the  gaps  as  they 

opened,   fell  into  rank, 
Bore  steadily  down— a  river  of  fire— on  the 

enemy's  flank. 
What  did  you   say,  sir?     Yes,   I  had  three  sens, 

brave  men,  on  that  field; 
Soldiers  of  steel— hearts  of  oak   in   their 

breasts— they   never  would  yield 
To  the  foe;  they  would  march  steadily  on  if  need 

be,   to  death, 

Through  the  lightning  of  battle  and  its  shell- 
scorching  breath. 

Ah,  you  have  news  of  them !     You  bring  me  a 

letter!     I   knew   full   well 
That  John  would  be  in  a  hurry  the  glorious 

news  to  tell; 
And  Henry  and  Joe  would   never  wait   until 

they  wrote  to  me, 
If  only  a  line,  to  let  me  know  of  the  Old   Flag's 

victory ! 

But — 'tis  not  the  boys  who  write;  'tis  a 

hand   I  do  not  know; 
Read   the  letter   for  me,   neighbor,   for  my  eyes 

are  blinded  so, 
"Dear   sir,    the   battle    raged    most    fearfully" 

—'twas  so  the  letter  said— 
"And  through   a  blood-red  sea  we   fought  o'er 

billows  of  the   dead. 

"A   hundred   guns  lay  planted   on   the   battle- 

mented  height, 
And   more   than   twenty   thousand   rebels   were 

marching  on   our  right; 
And,    down    in   the   valley    tinder,    ten    thousand 

troops  lay  low, 
While  the  rebels  poured  down  on  us  like  a 

mighty  river's  flow. 

"John  stood  up  on  the  height  there,  in  the 

thick  of  the  fight,  by  his  gun, 
And  the  way  that  he  fought,  sir,  was  like  ten 

thousand  in  one; 


Volley  on  volley  he  thundered  out   from  the 

throat  of  his  gun; 
Like  the  hurricane's  sweep  was  the  battle 

from  noon  to  the  setting  of  sun. 

"But,  just  in  the  flame  of  the  sunset,  when  its 

glory   fell  low  on  the  hill, 
There  came  a  lull  in  the  battle,  and   I   noticed 

John's  cannon  was   still — 
Shot    in    the  breast   he   lay,   close  by   his   gun. 

but  his  face  wore  a  light 
As  if  some  angel  had  touched  it— right  there 

in  the  midst  of  the  fight. 

"And  when  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  like 

the   roar   of  the  seas, 
And  the  red  lightning  of  war  flamed  over  the 

shell-riddled  leas, 
Joe's   sword,  like  a  banner,  led   the  way   for 

his  men  in  the  fight- 
As   they   bore   down   on    the    rebel   batteries   to 

the  left  and  the  right. 

"And    Henry  was  with  him,  and   swiftly   their 

column   was  massed 
Where  the  red   sickle   of  fire  cut   them   down    in 

heaps   as   they   passed; 
'Twas  their  column   that  turned   the  tide  of 

the   battle— I   heard   the  shout 
When  they  captured  the  guns  and  the 

rebels   turned  in  their  rout. 

"They   both    lay   there,   sir,    dead    on    the    field;    I 

found  them  at  night 
After  the  battle,  their  locks   wet   with   the   dew, 

their   faces   as  white 
As  God's  saints;   God's   peace  had   touched 

them   both,    and    I    know    full    well 
None  were  braver  than  they  'mid  the  thousands 

of  heroes  who   fell." 

Oh,  white  was  the   father's  brow,  and  his   face 

like  death  as  he  heard; 
Like  a  statue  of  stone  for  a  moment  he  stood. 

nor  stirred; 
As   the   letter   was    folded   up,   e'en   his   hair   grew 

white,  it  seemed, 
And  he  looked  away  to  the  South,  as  dreaming 

that   he   had   dreamed 

That  never,  never  again  to  the  farm  his  boys 

should  come, 
Marching   back   with   steady  step   to   the  sound 

of  the  fife  and  drum; 
And  the  noon  seemed  growing  darker,  and  the 

bees'  hum  died  away, 
As  lie  stood  there  in  the  meadow  where  he 

had   been    making  the  hay. 


-" 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


LIBERTY'S  MORN. 

(July  4,  1887.)    , 

The  summer  skies  of  '76  bent 

O'er  the  land,  until  at  length  God  poured 

Abroad  the  light — the  glorious  morning  light 

Of  the  glad  day  we  celebrate.     In  all 

The  summer  woods  birds  sang  and  happy  brooks 

Babbled  melodious   gladness.     The  flowers 

Lent  perfumed  sweetness  to  the  waiting  air, 

And  all  the  Summer's  pulses  were  as  still 

As  if  Nature  lay  in  trance  with  eyes  fixed 

Upon  the  pregnant   future.     The  nightmare 

Of  the  past  was  ended.     Men  had  awaked 

To  freedom.     With  hand  of  iron  purpose 

They  had  wrenched  the  yoke  of  tyrants  and  stood 

Up  wearing  the  glory  each  of  uncrowned 

Kings.     The  love  of  Liberty  stirred  all   the 

New  World's  pulse,  as  wide  she  spread 

Her  starry  banner.     The  Nation  superbly 

Steadfast  stood — "Liberty  or  death !"  its 

Watchword   ever.     Sunward   the  eagle  spread 

His  pinions,  as  if  he  felt  freedom  in 

All  the  air.     Though  but  a  handful,  our  sires 

Faced  the  Ola  World  with  a  front  of  fire. 

Xot  a  mountain  wall  stands  firmer 

In  its  place  than  stood  their  armies. 

Their  spirits  were  electric,  inspired 

By  one  great  purpose — Columbia 

For  Freedom.     Their  souls  loved  liberty 

As  the  eye  loves  light  or  the  ear  melody, 

And  as  saints  love  Heaven.     Manhood 

Were  beggarly  without  it.     Better 

Were  fettered  hands  than   fettered 

Souls.     Those  fathers  of  our  land  !  the 

Tyrant's  heel  could  never  stamp  their  living 

Purpose  out  while  yet  a  hand  was  left  to  lift 

The  sword   for  Fredom.     "Liberty  or  Death !" 

That  unyielding  aim  warmed  every  breath 

And  fired  the  powder  in  their  cannon,  and, 

Omnipotent  of  purpose,  they  gave  this 

Land  unto  us  free  as  the  pure  air  of 

Heaven — free  as  its  mountain  peaks  that  lift 

Up  their  shining  foreheads  to  the  sun  and 

Breathe   through   all   vast   space — free   as   the   boundless 

Oceans  with  their  infinitude  of  waters, 

Which  alone  limit  our  shores.     But  ah !  the 

Struggle  of  the  conquest !     The  awful 

Baptism  of  blood  ere  Peace  crowned  Liberty 

With  Empire.     When  first  they  came  the  New  World 

Greeted  them  with  the  thunder  of  the  winds 

Among  her  pines.     Her  hills  and  plains  fronted 

Them   with    frozen  stars.     Her  broad  and   flowing 

Rivers  lay  entombed,  wrapped  in  their  icy 

Shrouds.     Bare,  skeleton  arms  the   forests  stretched 

To  them,  and  the  sun  looked  cold  amid  the 

Mist  and  clouds.     And  here  were  savage  foes,  whose 

King  was  Cruelty.     How  leapt  at  their  fierce 

Touch  the  poisoned  arrows !     How  swift  within 

Their  clutch  fell  the  red  tomahawk  and  the 


Murderous   scalping-knife!     How    fought   they   with 
Devouring  flames,  making  their  scorching  tongues 
Their  weapons  of  vengeance.     The  lonely  cabin 
And  the  thronged  stockade,  the  fire  fed  on, 
Lighted  by  dusky  warriors.     The  Old  World, 
Mother  of  our  land,  forgot  her  love  for 
Her  New  World  children,  and  loosed  her  dogs  of 
War   to  seize  them.     Terror  and   Danger  laid 
Strong  hands  on  Freedom's  cradle.     But  ever 
Beside  it,  with  unfaltering  hearts,  Courage 
And  Patriotism  stood  tireless 
Sentinels.     They  lifted  like  a  trumpet's 
Notes  their  clarion  tones.     The  glory  of 
The  old  heroic  past  shone  on  them.     Such 
Brave  blood  as  first  stirred  the  pulse  of  all  Earth's 
Liberators  coursed  through  our   fathers'  veins. 
They  spoke,  and  all  the  wide  world  listened.     The 
Cannon's  thunders  from  the  heights  of  Bunker 
Hill  echoed  their  words,  and  Lexington,  with 
Rattling  musketry  and  with  sword  unsheathed, 
Proclaimed  their  love  for  Freedom.     Thus  the  seeds 
Of  Liberty  throughout  our  land  were  sown 
In  graves,  and  wet  with  blood  of  heroes. 

What 

Is  our  country's  glory?     Oh,  not  alone 
The  continent  of  space  which  sleeps  between 
The  seas,  but  the  immortal  names  and  deeds 
Sublime  with   which   it   has   crowned   Freedom.     What 
An  aureole  of  brightness  lingers  around 
Them !     How  like  a  galaxy  of  stars  shine 
Forth    the    New   World's    heroes !  Like    the    fragrance 
Of  sweet  flowers  the  perfumed  glory  of 
Their  noble  deeds.     Not  till  the  stars  fade,  and 
The  last  man  of  the  race  has  passed,  shall  the 
A\7orld  forget  our  Washington,  our  Lincoln 
And  our  Grant,  nor  our  great  Grand  Army — the 
Light   of  whose  heroic   deeds   makes   Freedom's 
Noonday  brightness. 

Then  ring,  O  ring  today 
The  joy-bells  of  the  Nation!  for  man  holds 
His  manhood   free,  and  all  our  lands  lies  in 
God's  lap  of  blessing. 

THE  LESSONS  OF  MEMORY. 
Memorial  Day. 

We  go  in  silence  backward  through  the  years. 
Memory  leads  us,  crowned  with  the  starlight 
Of  tender  thoughts.     There  are  tears  within  her 
Eyes,  and  her  lids  are  heavy  with  sorrows 
I Tn forgotten.     What   sees   she?     Where   leadeth 
She?     Look!  listen! 

'Tis  Spring  in  the  warm  South. 
How  pure  the  breath  of  orange  bloom !  How  the 
Soft  breezes  stir,  weighted  with  perfumed  sweets ! 
The  bulbul  sings  in  the  forest  that  fringes 
The  warm  sunset.     The  rivers  run  on  with 
Happy  laughter  to  meet  the  smiling  sea. 
In  the  cotton  fields  the  negro  labors. 
The  sun  burns  him,  and  the  master's  whip  stings 


Westward  Empire. 


Him.     His  breath  sweeps  aching  heartstrings.     He  lifts 

His  eyes  and  wonders  if  God  sees.     He  sees 

Men  bought  and  sold,  and  wonders  if  God  hears 

The  cry  of  tortured   hearts.     Chains   clank   where  men 

Are  sold  like  cattle.     Does  God  hear? 

Fronting 

The  sun-warmed  sea,  throated  with  cannon  are 
The  black  walls  of  Sumter.     The  fort  is  Freedom's 
Eye  watching  the  land.     Within,  with  pulse  which 
Throbs  across  the  continent,  Loyalty 
Stands  at  the  guns.     Morn  sees  the  Stripes  and  Stars; 
Eve  wafts  their  glorious  colors  with  her 
Breath.     But   from  the  pregnant  womb  of  the  fair 
City   fronting  the   fort,  Treason,' full-grown, 
Hath  leaped.     Its   breath  is  fire.     Its  heart   is  hate. 
Its  flag  the  Stars  and  Bars.    Its  drink,  the  blood  of  free 
men. 

God  has  heard  the  slave.     The 
Cannons  thunder.     Across  the  water  they 
Pour  their  fire  on  Sumter.     Smoke  wraps  the  fort; 
Fast  stand  the  loyal  heroes.     Not  firmer 
Stood  they  of  Thermopylae.     They  shout  back 
With  belching  cannon.     With  leaden  ball,  with 
Hurtling  shot,  with  bursting  shell,  defy  the 
Traitor.     The  Nation,  as  with  one  eye,  watches; 
As  with  one  ear,  hears.     Through  all  the  loyal 
North  thousands  of  hearts  beat  as  one  when 
Sumter  falls.     From  the  forge  comes  the  sturdy 
Blacksmith,  with  arms  brawny  enough  to  bear 
The  shield  of  Hercules.     From  his  desk  the 
Clerk,  his  brows  knit  with  weightier  problem 
Than  all  his  columned  figures.     From  his  store 
The  merchant,  clasping  his  musket.     From  the 
College  the  man  of  science  and  the  young 
Student,  grasping  the  sword.     From  the  pulpit 
The  man  of  God,  armed  with  the  love  of  right 
And  ready  for  the  leaden  hail.     From  the 
Farm  the  farmer  and  the  laborer,  their 
Hearts  beating  like  drums  to  the  music  of 
Freedom.     The  mother  kisses  her  son  and 
Gives  him  to  her  country.     The  wife's  heart  is 
Torn  with  the  sharp  clutch  of  Sorrow,  and  bleeds 
Within  her  breast,  but  her  words  drop  blessing 
And  tenderness,  and  the  breath  of  courage 
The  husband  feels  upon  his  cheek  as  her 
Lips   kiss   him    farewell.     The   maiden    smiles   through 
Tears   upon  her   lover,   but   as   she  bids 
Him  go  the  word  sounds  like  a  death-knell  to 
Her  hopes. 

Later,  the  little  children  lift 
Their  dimpled  hands  and  cry  for  papa,  but  the 
House  is  still,   for  papa  has  gone.     In  the 
Wife's  ears  rings  ever  the  sound  of  battle, 
And  her  dreams  are  of  death  and  white   faces 
Turned  upward  to  the  stars;  but  she  does  not 
Falter.     Oftimes  the  maiden,  like  a  lily 
Plucked  from  its  stalk,  fades  with  longing  and 
With  waiting,  but  no  word  is  sent  to  her 
Lover  to  weaken  his  courage. 


And  so 

Went  forth  our  armies.     Under  the  stars  they 
Slept,   under  the  sun   they   fought.     Footsore  and 
Bleeding  they  marched.     Fronting  long  lines  of  steel, 
F routing  fixed  bayonets,  rushed  onto  the 
Foe.     With  smoke  poisoning  the  air,  with  fire 
In  their  faces,  and  Death  marching  before 
Them,  still  they  pressed  on. 

O  the  armies  of 

Dead  !     O  the  breathless  bivouacs  where  not 
A  breast  heaved  nor  a  pulse  stirred !  where  eyes 
Stared  up  to  the  moon  and  the  sun,  and  where 
Forms  were  as  stiff  as  stark  winter-trees!     O 
The  horrors  of  prison-pens,  where  skeletons 
Walked,  tortured  by  hunger,  with  life  enough 
Only  to  breathe!    O  the  rivers  of  blood 
Which  made  holy  the  ground !     O  the  graves  which 
Are   like   altars,  where   the  brave   sleep,  and   where 
Freedom  hath  wept !     O  the  homes  where  Death  wall:i-:l 
In  the  silence,  each  step  on  some  heart !    These 
Memory  shows  us  as  we  walk  today 
Where  smileth  white-robed  Peace,  and  birds  sing  'nealli 
Skies  that  bend  no  more  above  the  smoke  of 
Battle;  and  where  green  grasses  wave  to  hide 
The  furrows  made  by  War's  red  plowshare,  and 
'Mid  the  rustling  of  her  robes  the  whisper 
Falls,  stirring  our  hearts  with  its  electric 
Breath.     The  land  thick-sown  with  heroes'  graves  should 

bring  forth 

God-like  harvests.     The   Nation's   purposes 
Should  grow  straight  up  to  heaven,  as  trees  grow 
Sunward.     Remember  the  brave  who  died  to 
Save  the  glory  of  their  country,  and  guard 
Well  the  land  they  loved. 

WESTWARD  EMPIRE. 

Look  up  with  tender  eyes,  O  earth  so  fair! 

Unto  the  shining  sun; 

Lean  down,  O  skies !  with  sapphire  eyes 

Unto  the  mounts  which  come 

Thrusting  their  shoulders  into  the  deeps 

Of  the  far  heavens,  with  them  breathing 

The  breath  of  stars,  and  feeling 

The  leaping  thunders  stealing 

O'er  clouded  paths  along; 

Hearing  the  wondrous  song 

Of  the  far-circling  spheres. 

Hoary,  O  mounts!  are  ye  with  years, 

Yet  young  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 

When  the  lips  of  the  morning  are  prest 

All  glowing  and  warm  on  your  crest 

Do  ye  look,  and  tender  the  glow 

Which  burns  on  your  foreheads  of  snow. 

O  mounts!  with  your  granite-wrought   lips, 

Ye  are  dumb !    ye  are  dumb ! 

Yet  sometimes  we  know  that  a  tongue 

Ye  do  find  for  your  echoing  crags, 

For  they  beat  the  still  air  with  their  sound. 

And  break  all  the  silence  around; 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


They  answer  the  roar  of  the  thunder, 
And  the  cataracts  leaping  from  under 
Their  feet,  and  they  shriek  back  to  the  cry 
Of  the  mad  whirlwind  rending  the  sky. 

But,  O  crags!  ye  are  dumb,  ye  are  dumb! 

When  to  ye  we  questioning  come 

And  ask  of  the  ages  agone, 

And  ask  of  the  people  who  lie 

In  the  bosom  of  earth,  'neath  the  sky 

Which  living  they  loved,  your  lips 

Are  fro/en  with  silence.     The  tips 

Of  the  pines,  which  are  dark 

In  the  sunshine  as  well  as  the  storm, 

Seem  touching  the  stars,  and  they  lean 

On  the  breath  of  the  ether,  between 

The  earth  and  the  sky.     Do  they  know 

Aught  of  the  myriads  below — 

The  races  who  have  come  and  have  gone, 

Who  for  ages  have  slept  in  the  breast 

Of  this  warm-bosomed  earth,  at  rest 

For  all-time  'neath  the  stars? 

Can  they  tell  us  the  secrets  ye  know, 

O  crags !  with  your  altars  of  snow, 

And  your  oaks,  like  the  priests  of  old  Time, 

Which  beat  to  the  rhythm  and  rhyme 

Of  the  psalms  of  the  ages,  which  flow 

From  the  lips  of  the  tempests  which  blow, 

And  from  tender-voiced  zephyrs  at  eve, 

With  a  sob  as  if  Nature  did  grieve 

For  her  long-vanished  children  today, 

Who  are  but  dust  to  nourish  the  rose, 

And  the  sun-loving  palm-tree  which   grows, 

Drawing  its  life  from  their  death? 

They  may  know,  they  may  know,  but  their  breath 

Tells  only  of  life,  not  of  death. 

0  sky!  down  bending  so  fair — 
All  fair  with  star-islands  ye  are, 
And  white  Milky  Way  which  is  trod, 

1  am  sure,  by  the  angels  of  God — 
Afar  in  the  silences  spread, 

'Twixt  the  stars  in  the  deeps  overhead, 
Do  ye  hold  the  pathway  they  passed? 
Did  ye  catch  the  sweep  of  their  wings — 
The  wings  of  their  spirits  unfurled — 
As  they  left  behind  them  the  world 
With  its  blue-bosomed  sea  all  bedecked 
With  its  jewels  of  isles,  where  have  crept 
Through  the  ages  the  tides  at  their  play? 
The  world  with  its  sunshine  and  calm, 
With  its  glory  of  orange  and  palm, 
This  world  of  the  West  on  the  rim 
Of  the  sunset.     O  skies !  can  ye  tell— 
Oh,  whisper  it  low !  what  befell 
Those  dusky-hired  children  of  yore, 
That  they  faded  from  mountain  and  shore? 
Through  the  starry-gemmed  regions  of  light 
Can  ye  find  not  some  trace  of  their  flight? 
The  sky  gives  back  never  a  sound, 
Through  the  deeps  of  its  silence  profound 
No  answer  is  heard,  but  the  song  of  the  bird   floateth 
down. 


O  starry-eyed  Occident  land! 
O  blossom-lipped,  beauteous  land  ! 
Whose  winter  is  golden  as  noon; 
Whose  breath  is  the  orange  perfume; 
Whose  blood  is  the  warm  ruddy  wine 
That  flows  from  the  fruit  of  the  vine; 
Whose  pulse  is  the  calm,  stormless  sea; 
Whose  gold  is  the  harvests  that  be 
On  thy  luminous  valleys  and  hills. 
A  voice  cometh  to  me  that  thrills 
Like  the  voice  of  a  prophet  my  soul. 

0  hoary  old  mounts!    ye  may  keep 
In  your  breasts  the  secrets  which  sleep 
'Neath  your  crags  and  your  pines. 

To  a  vision-blest  Patmos  I  turn, 

And  I'm  done  with  the  ashes-filled  urn 

Of  the  Past.     O  vision  sublime! 

1  see  the  grand  future  of  Time, 
I  see  on  these  shores  of  the  West, 
Where  long-vanished  nations  do  rest, 
Like  a  seed  that  is  sown, 

A  glory  like  that  of  the  sun. 

O  Nebo!  I  stand  on  your  height 

And  my  eyes  grow  glad  at  the  sight 

Of  the  vision  T  see.     God's  pillar  of  cloud  and  of  fire 

Leadeth  westward,  and   Freedom's  desire 

Leadeth  on  to  this  land  of  the  sun. 

God  hath  lifted  the  race  to  the  heights  of  His  will, 

And  Freedom  wears  stars  that  like  planets  do  fill 

The  space  of  His  purpose  divine. 

Sierras,  rock-ribbed  and  snow-crowned, 

The  grand  Alps  of  Freedom  rise  higher  than  ye, 

And  down  on  the  shores  of  this  sea 

The  splendor  of  Empire  doth  rest, 

Like  God's  crown  on  the  race. 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

'Twas  a  fair  city  of  those  olden  times 

To  which  Columbus  came,  hugging  his  dream 

Of  undiscovered  lands  lying  across 

The   shadowy  sea,   as  yet   unploughed 

By  keel  of  any  ship  than  the  blue,  starlit 

Skies  more     pathless.     For  years,  by  night  and  day 

Had  the  great  Pilot  heard  its  voice  calling 

Him   with    enticing   speech.     Arise!     arise! 

The  beckoning  west   seemed   crying.     Beyond 

The  horizon's  purpling  lines  the  lapping 

Seas  seemed  kissing  golden  shores,  and  as  he 

Breathed  Seville's  soft  airs,  heavy  with  odors 

Of   fragrant   jasmine   and   spicy  pomegranate, 

And  dreamed  beneath  her  opalescent  skies, 

Or   within   her   Moorish  temples   worshiped 

Where  saintly  statues  rose,  or  walked  in  courts 

Of  marble,  where  fountains  sang  in  tinkling 

Melody,  and  grand  cathedral  walls,  set 

With  bright  gems,  echoed  the  music  of  the 

Swaying  bells,  and  where  he  drank  the  lemon's 

Spicy  breath,  or  trod  beneath  green-needled 

Pines,  their  aromatic  wine  inhaling, 


ISABELLA    OFFERING    TO    PLEDGE    HER   JEWELS    TO    AID    COLUMBUS. 
[From  the  Painting  by  A.  Munoz  Dcgrain.] 


CJt rUtopher  C 'olit mbux. 


And  watched  the  ships  lying  at  anchor  by 

The  Golden  Tower,  and  had  speech  with  men 

Ot  science  and  of  thought,  he  nursed  his  hopes 

Anew,  and  the  Xew  World  brightened  to  his 

Vision.     O  large-souled  man !     waiting  and 

Waiting  still,  through  weary  years,  till  thy  smooth 

Brow  grew  furrowed,  and  Disappointment's  stern 

Winter  whitened   thy  hair,  divinest   patience 

Was  thy  crown  until  the  New  World,  mid  its 

Smiling  seas,  rose  to  thy  sight,  set  in  the  sunset's  heart. 

But  not  from  fair  Seville,  where 
Guadalquiver's   shining  waters   sunward 
Flashed,  sailed  his  proud  ships  toward  the  setting 
Sun;  but  from  small  Palos,  dreaming  by  the 
Wave,  home  of  sea  toilers,  did  at  last — like 
A  star  out  of  midnight — set  the  great   Captain 
Forth  to  find  the  waiting  world  within  the 
Unknown  West.     The  little  town  ran  to  and 
Fro  to  see  the  three  small  ships  upon  the 
Shining  sea,  mere  motes  upon  the  waters; 
And  women,  with  their  babes  upon  their  breasts, 
Bemoaned  his  folly  in  defying  death; 
And    some    among   the   curious    watching   crowd 
Talked  scornfully,  and  winked  their  eyes,  and  shrugged 
Their  heavy  shoulders,  and  called  him  madman, 
Fool,  and  driveling  foreign  idiot,  who 
Yet  should  bait  the  fishes  with  his  flesh  when 
In  the  restless  deeps  of  unknown  seas  the 
Maddened  billows  raging  in  their  wrath  should 
Howl  his  requiem.     The  criminal,  with 
The  strong  iron  bars  'twixt  him  and  freedom, 
Shut    from   heaven's   blessed    air   and    day's   sweet    light. 
The  foul  dungeon  walls  his  sunless  and  his 
Starless  firmament,  his  strong  limbs  cramped  by 
Narrowness  of  space,  scorned  liberty  when 
Offered  at  the  price  of  sailing  with  this 
So-called  mad  adventurer,  and  hugged  his 
Chains,  and  hugged  captivity  and  noisome 
Prison  cell.     Our  God  was  there.     The  New  World's 
Shores  were  not  for  such  as  he. 

O  ever 

Blest  Rabida!     Beneath  thy  red-tiled  roof, 
Loved  by  the  morning  sun,  kissed  by  his  beams 
When  sinking  to  the  west,  beacon  upon 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  Palos,  thou  nursing 
Mother  of  those  mighty  hopes  cradling  a 
World  unknown!     God  touched  the  eyelids  of 
Thy  children,  and  friar  and  padre  bridged 
The  deep    with  prayers,  helped  to  swing  backward 
On  their  ponderous  hinges  the  great  Past's 
Iron   doors.     And  there  with  steadfast   gaze  walked 
Silently  the  noble  Admiral,  while 
Scanning  sea  and  sky,  Hope's  fire  burning  beneath 
His  lids,  and  his  large-visioned 
Eyes,  forever  seeing  things  unseen,  turned 
To  his  golden  dreamland  of  the  fair  yet 
Undiscovered  world.     Upon  thy  shores,  O 
"Memory-haunted   Palos,"  the  midnight 
Of  Time's  past  gave  place  to  golden  dawn  of 
Freedom,  and  those  rude  caravels,  like  specks 


Upon  the  great  sea's  breast,  saw  a  New  World 

Rise  upon  far  western  waters,  where,  sleeping, 

Lay  the  whole  world's  hopes,  broad'ning  the  round,  sweri 

Earth,  and  broad'ning  man  as  he  inhales 

Its  atmosphere  of  freedom.     O  dawn  most 

Pregnant  when  these  small  ships  sailed  from  Palos! 

The  starlight  pales  within  the  glowing  east, 

From   La  Rabida's  height  Columbus   comes 

With  hurrying   feet;  youth's  heart   seemed  stirring 

In  his  breast  once  more.     The  years  of  waiting 

Are  behind  him  now.     The  fluttering  sails 

Move  him  like  angels'  wings.     The  hurrying 

Steps  of  sailors  on  the  decks  is  music 

To  his  ears.     The  boatswain's  whistle  is  like 

Gabriel's  horn.     The  Cross  is  there  above 

His  vessels'  spars.     The  rising  breeze  swift  fills 

His  waiting  sails.     Farewells  are  said,  the  anchors 

Weighed,  the  unknown  sea  before  them,  but 

Mystery  beyond  the  blue  horizon's  walls. 

O  days  and  days  with  naught  but  sky  and 

Sea!  the  blazing  sun,  the  far  and  silent 

Stars,  or  clouds  and  rain  and  howling  tempests' 

Wrath,  and   those  small  ships   upon  the  boundless 

Waste  of  mighty  waters.     A  mocking  ghost, 

Despair,  sits  at  the  helm  and  clutches  each 

Sailor's  heart;  only  the  leader's  soul  lost 

Not   its    faith;  only  his  dauntless  courage   never   failed. 

But  one  sweet  morn,  when  purple 

Lay  the  West,  and  Morning's  star  shone  on 

The  sleeping  skies,  and  calm  was  on  the  sea, 

And  white  birds  floated  on  the  rippling  waves, 

And  berry-brightened  boughs  seemed  laden  with 

Hope's  wine,  floating  the  deep,  sweet  as  the  starry 

Paean  at  Creation's  birth,  when  sang  the 

Morning  stars  together,  one  glad  note  ran 

Across  that  unknown  sea.     "Land!  Land!" 

Then  pealed 

The  signal  gun  and  shouts  and  joyous  cries 
Of  sailors  swept  the  air,  and  glad  Te  Deums 
Broke  upon  the  decks.     At  last !  at  last !  the 
Waiting  years  were  crowned. 

Four  hundred  years!     four  hundred  years! 

And  a  continent  we  bring, 
Where  from  ocean  unto  ocean 

Each  man's  a  sovereign  king. 
Fling  wide  our  starry  banner, 

No  slave  beneath  its  fold, 
And  tell  our  children's  children 

This  deathless  story  old. 


SOMETIMES.     (1898.) 

God's  day  does  sometimes  come 
Through    darkness    and    the    gloom 
Of  a  dead  nation's  tomb. 

Sometimes  from  blood  and  death 
The  fairest  blossoms  spring 
And  Hope  finds  surest  wing. 


93 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


Sometimes  God  lifts  His  arm— 
We  hear  His  anvil  ring, 
And  then  may  Freedom  sing. 

0  struggling  nations,  hear! 
God's  arm  is  now  uplift, 
And  His  new  day  is  near. 

1  see  its  blessed  dawn, 
As  in  the  heaving  main 

Sink  the  great  ships  of  Spain. 

And  as  I  see  afar, 

Above  the  isle-gemmed  seas, 

Our  banner  in  the  breeze, 

So  proudly  flung,  and  there 
See   Freedom's  sure  advance, 
Strong  as  an  avalanche. 

O  blessed  "Sometime,"  when 
God  as  our  captain  draws 
His  sword  in  righteous  wars, 

And  when,  with  ear  attent, 
Unto  His  children's  cry 
Salvation  draweth  nigh. 

EARTH'S  GREAT  SEAS.     (1898.) 

Earth's  wondrous  oceans  looking  to  the  sky, 
Mirroring  the  sun  and  all  the  wide,  vast  blue, 

The  glory  of  the  countless  stars  on  high, 

The  great,  grand  mountains,  old  yet  ever  new. 

Kissing  earth's  shores  with  white-lipped  waves  of  foam, 
With  soft  breath  cooling  all  the  sultry  land, 

Sweeping  afar,  beneath  the  great  world's  dome, 
To  isles  which  do  like  cradled  empires  stand. 

To  far,  far  lands  where  Tyranny  doth  reign, 
Crushing  whole  peoples  with  its  weight  of  woe, 

And  then  away  to  other  lands  again, 
That  brood  in  silence  'mid  eternal  snow. 

And  then  to  lands  that  lie  as  if  a-dream, 
'Neath  skies  that  smile  in  floods  of  golden  light, 

So  fair  they  do  a  modern  Eden  seem, 
A  world  of  beauty  filling  sense  and  sight. 

O  seas  so  vast !     Ye  mighty  "half-world  seas !" 
Your  pulses  beat  as  old  and  strong  as  Time, 

The  great  lands  sleep  beside  ye,  and  ye  call 
Unto  them  ever  with  your  voice  sublime. 

Vast  highways  are  ye,  where,  unhindered,  grand, 
In  its  great  march  hath  Freedom's  footsteps  trod, 

Gathering  within  her  arms  an  island  land, 
The  fairest  pearl  sown  by  the  hand  of  God. 

Sweeping  afar  to  where  the  Orient  lies, 
Gemmed  with  the  islands  sleeping  on  thy  breast, 

Ye  have  made  pathways  'neath  the  bending  skies, 
Which   Freedom  sought,  where  halting  Empire  rests. 


Ye've  borne  our  flag,  our  starry  flag  afar, 

And  peace  hath  dawned  where'er  its  colors  wave, 

And  Hope  hath  smiled  above  the  front  of  war, 
And  hoary  Tyranny  hath  found  its  grave. 

And  our  blest  banner  with  its  Stripes  and  Stars 
Shall  wave  forever  on  those  farther  shores, 

And  men  grow  great  and  free,  while  Freedom  bars 
Her  gates  'gainst  wrong,  and  holds  her  golden  stores 

Open  to  all,  whate'er  their  race  may  be, 

Great  that  God  made  them  men,  and   greater  grown, 
As  years  pass  by,  in  that  their  souls  shall  see 

Themselves  unfold  in  the  grand  harvest  sown 
Beneath  the  banner  of  the  brave  and  free. 

ROLL  ONWARD.     (1898.) 

O  measureless  the  sea  that  is  gnawing  the  land, 
And  holding  the  shores  in  the  grasp  of  its  hand! 
Broad,  vast  as  the  sky  with  its  star-fields  unfurled, 
With  pulse  beating  time  with  the  heart  of  the  world. 

Great  highway  of  nations !  thy  wide  waters  roll 
From  the  noon  of  the  South  to  the  night  of  the  Pole; 
They  clasp  the  far  East  like  a  pearl  to  their  breast, 
Then  move  like  a  god  to  the  star-lighted  West. 

Sail  onward,  sail  swift,  O  ye  ships  of  the  free! 
And  hasten  the  dawn  of  that  grander  To-Be; 
Your  legions  are  shod  with  right  clear  as  the  sun, 
And  the  strong  voice  of  Freedom  speaks  out  from  each 

gun- 
Roll  onward,  great  ocean,  roll  onward  and  bear 
The  legions  of  Liberty  on  to  the  war; 
Make  a  path  o'er  thy  deep  for  Freedom  to  tread 
WTith  our  own  starry  banner  proud  waving  o'erhead. 

WHEN  THE  BATTLE  BREAKS.     (1898.) 

We  know  not  what  may  be;  th'  unwritten  years 

Are  dim  with  clouds  of  heavy  doubts  and   fears; 

Peace  hides  her  face,  and  War  with  dripping  hands 

And  horrid  front  within  the  future  stands— 

We  hear  the  thunders  from  the  cannon's  throat, 

Black'ning  the  air,  its  poisoned  smoke  does  float 

In  sulphurous  masses  like  the  breath  of  hell; 

Hear  curses,  shrieks  and  the  despairing  yell 

Of  routed  forces;  see  the  watery  main 

Torn  as  by  cyclones,  covered  with  the  slain, 

Reddened  with  blood  of  heroes  brave  and  true, 

Who  die  for  Freedom  and  for  me  and  you. 

And  oh!    the  countless  other  hosts  who  die 

For  cursed  Tyranny,  who  forgotten  lie 

Dead  on  the  deep  beneath  a  tropic  sky, 

And  on  the  land  by  castle's  front  and  fire, 

Mown  down  in  ranks,  these  martyred  hosts  expire, 

While  tossing  waves  fling  on  the  waiting  shore 

The  white-faced  dead  whose  battles  are  all  o'er— 

The  brave,  the  true,  the  gallant  and  the  young, 

Whose  deeds  shall  yet  by  Fame's  proud  voice  be  sung. 

O  white  immortals!     Freedom's  noblest  sons! 

Heroes  who  stood  unflinching  by  your  guns! 


Our  Country' s  Call. 


Nor  swerved  one  inch  amid  the  leaden  hail, 

Nor  did  the  might  of  your  strong  courage  fail. 

Nursed  in  the  years  of  perfumed  peace,  ye  grew 

High-souled  as  truth,  and  to  your  country  true. 

Ye  cannot  die,  though  Spanish  guns  mav  beat 

Your  great  souls  deathward;  though  your  bannered  fleet 

Sink,  like  the  Maine,  beside  that  alien  shore. 

Deathless  are  ye,  deathless   forevermore, 

Brave  men,  grand  heroes  who  for  us  have  bled, 

Life  is  as  nothing  in  the  scale  where  shed 

Is  human  blood  for  Freedom;  War's  red  scars 

Are  Honor's  badge  beneath  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 

Boom,  boom,  O  guns!  the  leaden  hail  may  plow 

The  sea  and  shore,  but  ever  at  the  prow 

Of  our  great  battleships,  courageous,  calm, 

Shall  stand  our  heroes  with  unfaltering  arm; 

Strong  for  the  right,  and  swift  shall  be  unfurled, 

Earnest  of  peace,  unto  the  watching  world, 

The  Stars  and  Stripes,  the  ensign  of  the  free, 

The  priceless  flag  of  sacred  Liberty. 

E'en  the  black  torpedoes  beneath  the  ships 

Shall  speak,  with  their  terrible  blackened  lips, 

Freedom  for  man,  and  out  of  their  thunder 

Shall  the  calm  of  Peace  come,  riven  asunder 

The  strength  of  th'  tyrant  whose  throne  shall  be  hurled, 

Broken  and  crushed,  'neath  the  feet  of  the  world. 

OUR  COUNTRY'S  CALL.     (1898.) 
Our  Country,  O  our  Country!  do  ye  not  hear  its  call, 
As  with  drum  and  thundering  cannon  it's  appealing  unto 

all? 

It  is  crying  out  for  soldiers,  it  is  calling  men  to  take 
The  stirring  front  in  battle  for  blessed  Freedom's  sake. 

Give,  give,  O  wives!  your  husbands,  most  priceless  gift 
ye  know, 

And  hold  your  hearts  from  selfishness  and  from  rebel 
lious  woe; 

Send  them  with  prayers  and  blessings,  and  tender  love 
and  true, 

To  battle  now  for  human  need— stand  fast,  both  me  and 
you! 

O  the  full  and  bitter  vintage  of  wearing  hopes  and  fears  ! 
0  the  weary  path  of  loneliness  that  is  wet  with  burning 

tears ! 
O  the  heartache  and  the  sorrow  that  must  conn-  to  you 

and  me, 
They   are    woman's    priceless    sacrifice    for    th'    cause    of 

Liberty. 

Give,  give  your  sons,  O  mothers !  the  young,  the  true,  the 

brave, 

Sons  of  a  mighty  continent  that  tyrant  knows  nor  slave; 
Go  forth  in  dauntless  legions  to  fight  for  human  weal, 
With   th'   voice  of  Justice  speaking   from  your  lines  of 

burnished  steel. 

Give,  give,   O   gentle  maidens!   the  men  your  love  hath 

crowned, 
Their  strong  and  tender  hearts  and  true  will  make  cadi 

battle-ground, 


Like   those   of   sons   and    husbands,   earth's   consecrated 

place — 
Holy  of  Holies  will  it  be  for  Freedom  and  the  race. 

O  God  is  with  our  legions,  and  His  foot  is  on  the  sea, 
He  is  holding  now  the  sabre  that   shall   make  a  people 

free, 
He  is  raining  down  His  blessing  on  our  armies  as  thcv 

fight, 
And  His  arm  will  give  the  victory  to   Freedom  and  the 

right. 

FREEDOM'S  SEED.     (1898.) 

O  the  glory  of  the  dawning !  O  the  splendor  of  the  day ! 

When  the  power  of  th'  oppressor  shall  be  broken  by  our 
sway ; 

When  great  Freedom  plants  her  banner  beside  tin- 
spreading  palm, 

And  the  fury  of  the  battle  melteth  into  tropic  calm. 

When   the    famished    lips    of    Hunger    shall    no   more   be 

starved  and  white, 

Or  the  cruel  hand  of  Slaughter  be  lifted  in  the  fight; 
Where  the  placid  oceans  whisper  of  but  perfume  and  of 

rest, 
And   the  island  in  the  sunlight   seems   a   garden  of  the 

blest. 

Hear  the  pulses  of  the  Nation  in  the  drum  beats  of  tin- 
brave, 

Who  with  heart  athrob  with  pity  go  to  succor  and  to 
save 

Those  whose  lives  are  crushed  and  bleeding,  torn  by 
tyrant's  cruel  hand, 

Till  we  at  their  cries  of  anguish  could  no  longer  move 
less  stand. 

Lo!  the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  and  the  centuries 

fly  past, 
Laden  with  the  wrongs  of  ages,  which  we  will  wipe  out 

at  last; 
Cuba,   scourged,  down-trodden,  bleeding,  lift  your   face, 

redemption  nears, 
Speaking   from   our   belching  cannon,   smiling   from  our 

shining  spears. 

Land  of  endless  Summer,  lying  like  a  pearl  upon  the 
deep, 

We  forget  not  in  your  bosom  do  the  Maine's  brave  heroes 
sleep; 

From  their  graves  shall  spring  the  bravest  of  our  self- 
appointed  trust, 

Freedom's  seed  is  lying  hidden  in  each  grain  of  sacred 
dust. 


AMERICA.     (1898.) 

It  is  a  long,  long  march  from  savagery 

To  the  heights  of  Freedom,  where  man  looks  forth 

Glorious  in  manhood's  fullness,  king  of 

The  world,  master  of  self,  ruler  of  his 

Own  passions,  with  soul  aflame 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


With  godlike  longings,  aspiring  upward 

To  the  great  and  true,  which  are  immortal. 

Mere  existence  is  not  life.     To  truly 

Live,  the  soul  must  be  awake  with  all  its 

Powers.     It  must  be  up  and  doing,  and  winged  with 

Mighty  purposes,  warm  as  the  blessed 

Sunlight,  active  as  the  winds  which  walk  the 

World  and  sweep  the  far-off  skies.     There  is  no 

Limit  that  we  know  to  man's  attainment. 

Forever  on  and  on  is  Being's  law; 

Forever  up  and  higher  tends  the  soul 

When  true  unto  itself.     'Tis  thus  we  walk, 

'Tis  thus  we  rise,  till,  lo!  the  savage  in 

Our  nature  dies,  and  man  is  made  fit  for 

Freedom.     O  Starry  Banner!  emblem  of  the   free! 

How  hath  the  race  moved  onward  'neath  thy  folds! 

A  continent  to  Liberty  hath  here 

Been  born  beneath  thy  stars;  and  where  once  did 

Roam    the   savage,   lo!   today   the    grandest 

People  that  Old  Time  hath  known   doth  high-souled 

Walk  the  path  of  Progress.     Humanity 

Doth  feed  their  hearts  with  pity  for  the  weak, 

And   their   souls   are   tender   for  the   needy. 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  speak  to  the  listening  world 

Of   Humanity's   great  brotherhood.     The 

Very  air  seems   freer  where  they   wave,   and 

Stirred  by  tenderer  pulses.     Free  from  stain 

Is  the  grand,  starry  flag  of  the  free  and  the  brave 

As  the  blue  of  the  heavens  overhead 

When  the  day  shineth  clear  of  a  cloud  and 

The  glory  of  sunlight  filleth  the  world 

With  its  light.     Land  illumined  with  splendor, 

Fair  as  the  sun,  with  a  story  as  white 

As  the  stars,  no  blot  on  thy  name,  no  step 

That  leads  backward,  but  on,  ever  onward 

For  Freedom  and  man  doth  America 

Press,  while  watcheth  the  whole  world  with  amaze. 


THE  RACE  SHALL  WAKE.     (1898.) 

The  great  fair  Earth,  it  has  a  voice  for  me, 

Breathed    from   the   leaf-tongued   trees   and   blooming 
flowers, 

From  mountain  tops  and  from  the  vast  wide  sea, 
Through   Morning's  glory  and  the  sunset  hours. 

The  calm,  dim   sweetness  of  the  opening  Dawn, 
The  glory  of  the   full,  sun-flooded  Noon, 

The  star-eyed  beauty  when  the  Night  is  born, 
Are  each  the  notes  of  one  majestic  tune. 

Full-choired  and  sweet  the  glorious  anthem   rings 
Through  Earth's  vast  aisles,  dim  lit  by  taper  stars, 

Through  the   grand   arches  where  the  sunlight   flings 
Throughout  the  day  its  shining  golden  bars. 

Each  water-drop  within  the  flowing  stream, 
Each  grassy  blade  upon  the  valley's  breast, 

Holding  within  its  arms  the  sunlight's  gleam, 

Speaks  of  God's  care,  which  knoweth  pause  nor  rest. 


Sometimes,  when  Nature  leans  with  brooding  brow, 
Cloud-decked,  and  swept  by  many  a  stormy  breath, 

She  seems  a  mourner,  and  we  marvel  how 

Her  great  heart  throbs  with  anguish  and  with  death. 

Nature  loves  peace,  she  loveth  calm  and  light, 
Clear  skies  and  tranquil  sea  and  smiling  land, 

But  still  the  storm  comes,  elements  do  fight— 
And  grim  Destruction  stalks  on  every  hand. 

So  on  the  still,  calm  brightness  of  our  day — 

Our  day  of  peace,  and  growing  strength  and  light — 

Broke  AVar's  red  tempest,  and  the  awful  sway 
Of  maddened  passions  struggling  in  the  fight. 

But  out  of  this  mad  tempest  yet  shall  break 
Great  hopes   for  nations,  and  our  arm  shall  be 

The  stay  of  Freedom,  and  the  race  shall  wake 
To  fairer  day,  to  higher  destiny. 


BLOSSOMS  ON  THE  DEEP. 
(Decoration  Day,  1900.) 

Strew  flowers  upon  the  wave, 
Tributes   to  heroes  brave 

Who  died   for  men. 
Their   high   souls   daring   death, 
They  fought  till  latest  breath 

For   Right   and   Liberty; 

Martyrs  they  be. 

They  died  for  you  and  me 
That  we  might  all  be   free 

From  might  of  Wrong. 
They  struck  at  Tyranny 
Which  threatened  Liberty 

With  iron  yoke  to  bind 

And  fetter  all. 

Brave  men  and  true  were  they, 
And  deathless  is  the  way 

Which  they  have  gone; 
For  in  our  hearts  they  live, 
And   freely  do  we  give 

To  those  immortal  ones 

Love's  tribute  here. 

Strew  flowers  upon  the  deep, 
The  cradle  where  they  sleep, 

And   let   them   rest; 
Rest  in  secure  repose, 
Till  this  earth  life  shall  close, 

And  cruel  war  no  more 

Unsheathes  the  sword. 

O  surging  waves!  roll  on 
In  ever  endless  flow 

O'er  Freedom's  sons! 
Hallow  each  year  anew 
The  deeds  they  dared   to  do, 

Fearless   in   Right's  own  might, 

For  Country's  sake. 


96 


THE    WASHINGTON    MONUMENT. 


Freedom's  Land. 


FREEDOM'S  LAND.     (1901.) 

This  continent  of  ours  between  the  seas, 
A  vast  wide  empire  on  whose  breast  might   rise 
Thousands  of  cities  great  as   Rome  of  old- 
Greater  in  might  and  in  free  majesty — 
Its  farther  shores  bathed  in  the  sunrise  light, 
While  its  great  West  is  resting  in  the  arms 
Of  star-crowned  Night,  and  where,  while  Winter  walks 
Upon  its  sunrise  borders,  Summer    loth 
Sit  beside  its  western  seas,  breathing  sweet 
Balms  and   fragrance,  her   feet   flower-sandaled 
And  her  robes  woven  of  rich  emerald 
Grasses,  her  air  filled  with  the  melody 
Of  birds  and  the  symphony  of  running 
Waters— this  land  is  Freedom's  own,  pregnant 
With  promise  for  the  race.     Glorious  with 
Hope,  the  future  turns  to  it  her  smiling 
Face,  while  Tyranny  doth  slink  into  his 
Darksome  paths,  and,  trembling,  seeks  the  shadows 
Of  some  other  clime  where  tyrants,  iron- 
Shod,  dare  walk  and  murder  Liberty.     O 
How  fair  thy  shining  pages  when  unrolled! 
Here  God  hath  set  thee  'twixt  two  mighty  seas, 
Gemmed  thy  great  breast  with  lakes  like  oceans   in 
Their  vastness,  and  they've  grown  white  \\ith  sails  of 
Commerce;  here,  like  some  unslumbering  god 
Of  old— some  mighty  Titan— stretched  the  "Great 
Father  of  Waters,"   and  unrolled  the  wide 
Prairies,   where   may   grow   unnumbered   harvests; 
Ana  elsewhere  lifted  mounts  that  thrust  their  heads 
Above  the  cloudy  curtains  of  the  sky 
Into  the  blue  deeps  where  planets  shine,  and 
The  Sun's  great  eye  forever  looks  undimmed 
Upon  the  bright  heavens.     Land  whose  harvests 
Are  enough  to  feed  the  world;  whose  mines  of 
Gold  and  silver  might  fill  the  treasuries 
Of  all  nations;  'neath  whose  soil  is  stored   full 
Seas  of  oil,  enough   to  light  all  lands,   and 
Furnish  fuel  for  all  industries,  and 
Where  Jehovah's  hand  hath  reared  uncounted 
Forests,  whose  green  leaves  weave  a  canopy 
Of  shade  when   Summer  sleeps   within  the  wood, 
And,  touched  by  the  gentle  breeze,  send  lute-like 
Music  forth  to  glad  the  listening  ear, 
As  if  somewhere  a  seraph  whispered  'mid 
The  silence.     There  are  giants  in  these  woods 
Amid  our  high  Sierras  who  clasped  hands 
WTith  Time  when  youth  was  on  his  forehead,  and 
The  race  was  in  its  infancy,  dwelling 
In  tents  or  sleeping  'neath  the  stars.     The  proud 
Sequoias  lifted  their  heads  above 
The  fair  young  earth  and  gladdened  it  with  their 
Fresh  loveliness.     The  golden  sunbeams  on 
Their  swaying  leaves  fell  softly  as  they  were 
Nature's  kisses  full  of  tenderness,  and 
Warm,  nursing  care.     The  air,  which,  like  a  fond 
Caress  touched  the  bronzed  foreheads  of  Bethlehem's 
Shepherds,  wafted  across  the  oceans  wide, 
Blew  'mid  their  leaves,  while  happy  birds  among 


Their  branches  sang.     Land  where  Science  doth  sit 
Garbed  in  her  grand  achievements,  conqueror 
Of  Nature's  forces;  where  we  do  speak  across 
The  continent  and  make  the  lightning's  tongue 
Whisper  our  message  for  us.     Land  where  church 
And  school  and  might}'  printing-press  are  thick 
Sown  as  stars  in  the  blue  vault  of  Night,  where 
Each  citizen  is  king,  sovereign  of 
His  own  destiny.     Land  of  proud  heroes 
Whose  immortal  deeds  are  deathless  as  the 
Liberty  for  which  they  fought;  thy  soil  is 
Sacred  soil,  made  holy  by  the  baptism 
Of  patriots'  blood,  and  by  the  countless 
Graves  made  glorious  by  their  sacrifice. 


And  not  until  Night's  countless  stars 
Shall  pale,  and  the  great  life-nursing  Sun  go 
Out  in  utter  darkness,  shall  thine  own  sons 
Prove  false  to  Freedom  and  to  thee, 
O  land  we  love!  great  Land  of  Liberty. 


THE  SCHOOL  OF  LIBERTY.     (1901.) 

How  far  away  that  dead  old  Past  doth  seem ! 
How  like  to  fiction  or  a  strange-wrought  dream, 
When   this    wide  land,   lying  between   the   seas, 
Cradled  the  savage,  lifted  to  the  breeze 
Forests  as  vast  as  empires,  plains  as  lone 
As  if  all  life  from  this  whole  earth  had  flown. 
When   ne'er  the  roar  of  Iron   Horse  was  heard, 
Nor  busy   Industry  the  silence  stirred; 
When  the  slow  tread   of  ox-team  broke  the  way 
Across  the  continent,  when  night  and  day 
Dangers  beset  men  as  they  onward  passed — 
Brave  sons  of  Freedom — o'er  the  deserts  vast; 
An  Empire's  space  unfolding  wide  to  view, 
With  hills  and  plains  and  grandeur  ever  new. 
No  rails  of  steel  the  mighty  distance  spanned, 
No  cities  stood  in  this  unpeopled  land. 
The  distant  West— how   full  of  mystery, 
How  dim  the  forecast  of  its  destiny ! 
The  mighty  Now  was  not   foreshadowed  then, 
Its  greatness  ne'er  had  touched  the  hopes  of  men; 
No  visions  stirred  of  the  grand  Yet-to-be — 
This   proud    Tomorrow   of  our   liberty. 


Slowly  the  nation  woke  and  Freedom  stirred, 

The  solemn  voice  of  Destiny  was  heard; 

The  East  and  West  clasped  hands,  th'  Star  of  Empire's 

day 

Westward  with  shining  beams  did  wend  its  way; 
O'er  tracks  of  steel  the  Iron  Horse  did  speed, 
Church,  school  and  printing-press  following  its  lead; 
Great   cities   rose   upon   the   wide-spreading   plains, 
And  the   Flag  waves   from   east  to   western   mains, 
And   now  we  sit  beside  this  western  sea, 
With   germ  of  Empire  budding  silently — 
Kmpire  of   free   men   a   continent   to  be, 
The  school  of  Progress  and  of  Liberty. 


Poems  of  Patriotism. 


ANARCHY. 

(September  18,  1901.) 

Hell  oped  its  door  and   from   its   awful   deep 
A  horrid  monster  crept.     Blacker  than  hell 
Itself  its  loathsome  form.     Its  baleful  eyes 
Burned    with   a   lurid   light;   its   tongue   was   flame, 
And  each  word  dropped  was  fire  to  kindle  all 
The  vilest  passions  of  the  soul.     Hate  is 
Its  offspring,  and  bloody  Murder  is  its 
Twin.     On   cruelty   it   doth   feast,  seasoned 
By  unmeasured  treachery.     No  deed  too 
Black  to  stay  its  vengeful  lust   for  power; 
Its  fangs  are  full  of  poison  and  are  held 
In  readiness  to  make  their  deadly  thrusts 
Whene'er   occasion   offers.     Swift   as  the 
Thunderbolt  and   fatal  as  the  awful 
Lightning's  stroke  are  they.     Its  plottings  are  in 
Secret.     Friendship  is  not  sacred,  and  its 
Guise  conceals  the  foulest  purposes. 
A  hydra-headed   monster  this   and   many- 
Armed,  its  track  covered  with  venom's  poisonous 
biime,  and  today  it   walks  abroad   fattening 
On   Murder,   lifting   the    assassin's   arm, 
Striking  at  all  those  who   represent  the 
Majesty  of  law,  and  seeking  to  pull 
Down   the  safeguards   of   Society,   all 
Barriers  to  crime,  and  make  the  world  drunk 
With  the  wine  of  lawlessness.     O  how  the 
Great   heart   of   this    Nation   bleeds   today   through 
What  this  awful  monster's  blood-stained  hand  hath 
Wrought!     Damnable  as  hell  its  deeds, 
And  black  as  its  awful  midnight.     It  hath 
No  conscience,  and  God  it  doth  not   fear.     The 
Brand  of  Cain  is  on  its  forehead,  and  Satan 
Is  its  consort.     Anarchy,  spelled  with  the 
Hellish   alphabet   of   Crime,   its   dreadful 
Name,   and   Assassination   the   black   robe 
It  wears.     As  freely  as  the  Sun  drops  its 
Life-giving  beams,  so   freely   doth  it   wield 
The  dagger's  point  and  the  dread  pistol-shot 
Of  the  assassin.     O  great   free  land  of 
Ours,  weeping  in  anguish  by  the  Nation's 
New-made   grave,  all   loyal  hearts   rent   with   their 
Speechless  woe,  up !   up !  and  swear  before  high 
Heaven,  in  Freedom's  holy  name,  that  this 
Great  land,  baptized  anew  in  th'  sacred  blood 
Of  our  beloved  and  martyred  President, 
Shall  purge  itself  of  Anarchy,  nor  give  it  place 
To  set  its  crime-stained  foot,  or  move  its  blood-red 
Hand,   or  lift   its   voice,  mouthing  at   all  times 
Foulest    blasphemies    against    Liberty 
And   Law,  beneath  the  sacred  banner  of 
The  glorious  Stripes  and   Stars. 


"It  is  God's  way,"  cried  he,  our  nation's  martyred  son, 
"It  is  God's  way,  not  ours.     Oh,  let  His  will  be  done!" 
And   then   he   softly   murmured— Oh,   hear    from   sea   to 
sea! — 


While   holy   trust   sustained   him— "Nearer,   my   God,   to 

Thee." 
It  is  God's  way,  we  cannot  doubt,  to  make  this  people 

see 
The     threatening     dangers     that     are     hid     in     lawless 

Anarchy, 

And   so  unto  the   Cross   we   cling,   through   all   this   an 
guished  night, 
But   still,   O   Land   of    Freedom!    rise    in    thy   glorious 

might- 
While  this  great  stricken  people  do  bleed  at  every  pore, 
Oh,  let  them  rise  and  swear  again  that  Anarchy  no  more 
Shall  find  a  home  among  us  here  on  Freedom's  sacred 

shore ; 
Make    this    dear    grave    a    stepping-stone    to    Freedom's 

noblest  height, 
Then  may  we  see  God's  purpose  clear,  and  then  the  dark 

grow  light. 


AMERICA'S  MORNING.     (1901.) 

O  mighty  sea !  asleep  in  Palos  Bay, 
With   gold   upon  thy  softly-rippling  waves, 
The  blush  of  Morn  within  the  Summer  skies, 
And  when  Noon  comes  the  gold  of  ripened  sun; 
When  ends  the  day,  Night,  star-crowned  like  a  queen, 
Bending  above  the  quiet  of  the  scene. 

The  rippling  waves  run  with  scarce-sounding   feet, 
There  is  a  murmur  in  the  quiet   sea, 
And  Morning  wakes  to  find  upon  the  wave — 
One   bright    cloud    watching   them — three   ships, 
Like  great,  white  birds  with  wings  outspread  to  fly, 
Ready  to  tempt  the  wide  sea's  mystery. 

One  heart  is  there  that  pulses  high  and  strong; 

His  eagle  eyes  look  outward  to  the  West, 

AVith  spirit  vision  he  looks  down  the  path, 

And  sees  fair  isles  upon  the  tides  asleep, 

Beyond  the  purple  of  th'   horizon's   line, 

Where  Day   sleeps  when   its  sun  has  ceased  to  shine. 

Prophetic  vision  sets  his  soul  aflame, 

Again  he  says  across  the  water's  rack, 

"There  are  some  lands  that  only  God  hath  seen, 

Our  three  ships  shall  go  sailing  for  their  shores." 

And   to  his   sight  those  lands   seemed   beckoning, 

Like  breeze-swept  boughs  filled  full  of  blossoming. 

O  the  long  days  upon  the  trackless  deep! 

The  days  of  storm,  the  nights  when  thunders  rave, 

The  hours  of  mutiny,  the  hopeless  days 

When  seas  are  reeling  in  the- tempest's  wrath, 

And   faint  hearts  would     turn     backward     from     the 

quest, 
Hut   for  the  strong  heart  in  their  leader's  breast. 


Thi*  Waking  {Vest. 


On,  on  these  ships  sail  toward  the  silent  West, 

Till  one  fair  morn,  upon  the  vessel's  deck, 

Broke,  like  the  music  of  an  angel's  voice, 

The  sudden   cry,   "Land!   land   ahead!    fair   shores 

Amid  the  wide  sea's  sun-kissed  wilderness, 

A  new  world  waits  our  weary  hearts  to  bless." 

O  moment  of  Earth's  ages!    who  can  speak 

The  pregnant  largeness  of  that  wondrous  hour? 

The  Past  swooned,  dying  in  its  magic  light, 

The  new  day's  dawn  was  full  of  vital  air! 

And   Freedom's   pulses  throbbed   around   the  world 

From  these  new  shores  round  which  the  vast  seas  curled. 

THIS  WAKING  WEST.     (1902.) 

In  the  old  days,  ere  was  our  Flag  unfurled 

Upon  these  farther  shores  that  front  the  West, 

As  now  upon  the  sunshine's  golden  flood, 

This  dreaming,  semi-tropic  land  did  rest. 

Th'  wild-flowers    bloomed,  th'  emerald  grasses  grew, 

Birds  sang  from  dawn  until  the  dewy  eve, 

And  summer  lingered  all  the  happy  year. 

The  caballero,  with  his   eyes  of  night 

And  hair  as  glossy  as  a  raven's   wing, 

Rode  his  proud  steed  as  if  it  were  a  part 

Of  his  own   frame,   doing  his  will,   as   did 

His  ready  arm  or  his  wandering  feet, 

While  the  gay  senorita,  with  her  dark, 

Liquid   eyes,   beautiful   as   the  starry 

Midnight,  smiled   on  him  as  she  whispered  words 

Of  honeyed  sweetness,  and  her  soft  laughter 

Was  like  the  tinkle  of  a  silver  bell. 

How  glad  the  hours  when  their  swift-flying  feet 

Kept  time  to  the  soft  strains  of  mandolin 

And  sweet-voiced  guitar,  o'er  which  their  ready 

Fingers  ran,  waking  delightful  melody. 

Life  then  was  but  a  long  Today,  a  breath 

Of  ceaseless  gladness,  and  their  Tomorrows 

Walked    unquestioned    and    uncared    for.      It   was 

Enough   for  them   To   Be,   in  this   glad  world 

Of  sunshine  and  of  fragrance.     To  do  was 

Not   their  creed.     What  mattered  that  yet   unborn 

Tomorrow  which  they  might  not   see?     Today 

Was  theirs,  and   it  was  full  of  beauty,  and 

They  were  glad  in  its  brightness  and  its  charm. 

What  though  proud  Progress  walked  not  ever  here? 

What  though  the  homes  of  sun-dried  bricks  were  all 

Their  hands  did   raise  to  clot  th'  emerald  sward? 

Was  not  the  glory  of  the  sunshine  fair? 

Was   not   the  splendor  of  the   hills   most   bright? 

Was   not   the  flooding  sunshine  ever  warm? 

Was  it  not  June  through  all  the  gladsome  year— 

A  June  of  blossoms  and   of  summer  air? 

Why,  then,  should  they  be  sad  or  have  a  care? 

No,  life  was  like  a  song,  and  every  day 

Was  filled  to  fullness  with  delight  and  joy. 

The  earth  did  blossom   for  them,  fruits  did  grow, 

The  land  was   fair  with   Plenty's  overflow. 

It  was  enough,  what  more  could  they  desire? 

And  so  this  realm  lay  waiting   for  the  time 


When  Progress  stirred,  and  when  another  race 

Should  come  to  find  the  riches  hid  within 

The  soil,  and  plant  great  orchards  and  wide  vineyards 

Here;  build  cities   grand,  and  open  Traffic's 

Door;   bid  Commerce  enter  at  our  Golden 

(jate,  and  lightning  steeds  climb  our  great  mountain 

Heights,  and  busy   Industry  set  all  her 

Wheels  a-whir,  until  the  land  should  ring  with 

The   proud   march  of  ever-moving   feet,  and 

This  waking  West  should  be  the  glory  of 

Expanding  Freedom  with  her  Stripes  and  Stars. 

IN  MEMORIAM. 
(Strewing  flowers  on  the  waves — Memorial  Day,  1902.) 

O  Freedom's  glorious  sons !  who  sleep 
Cradled  within  the  Ocean's  deep, 
Ye  cannot  die;  forever  wide 
As  sweeps  Old  Ocean's  restless  tide 
The  winds  shall  bear  your  name  afar. 
Immortal  are  your  deeds,  they  are 
The  sacred  heritage  of  Time, 
Forever  blossoming;   sublime 
As  God's  great  purposes,  they  broke 
The  Tyrant's  power  and  Freedom  woke 
To  deathless  life.     Then  bring  today 
Earth's  fairest  flowers,  and  reverently 
Upon  the  waters  fling  them  wide 
To  the  unresting  Ocean's  tide. 
Wide  as  the  sea,  O  let  them  roll! 
A  blossom  for  each  hero's  soul. 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  STRIPES  AND  STARS.     (1902.) 

This  wondrous  land  of  ours,  how  wide  it   is 

An'l   full  of  beauty!     A  continent  of 

Space,  stretching  from  sea  to  sea,  with   vast  plains 

Outspread,  and  mountain  heights  uplifted  till 

They  look  the  bulwarks  of  a  world,  so  strong 

Xot  e'en  the  giant  Time  could  topple  them; 

With  mighty  rivers,  the  broad  highways  of 

Commerce,   singing  clear   the   sounding   anthem 

Of  unceasing  Progress,  and  with  lakes  like 

Inland  seas,  upon  whose  shores  great  cities 

Lie,  the  wondrous  marts  of  traffic,  feeling 

The  pulse  of  trade  throughout  the  whole  round  world. 

All  zones  are  clasped  in  its  embracing  arms. 

On  our  far  northern  borders  Winter  is 

Throned  as  king,  with  the  iceberg  for  his  scepter. 

And  the  long  Night,  jeweled  with  stars,  as  the 

Mantle  for  his  shoulders.     And  here  the  wild 

Winds  thunder  and  beat  in  frantic  madness 

The   frozen   shores,  and   th'  sun  walks  timidly 

Near  the  horizon's  line,  not  daring  the 

Zenith,  and  trees  grow  dwarfed  as   fearing  the 

Cloud-touch  of  the  frozen  sky.     Nature  here 

Is  solitary.     No  singing  bird  or  bee 

E'er  breaks  the  silence,  sate  when  the  wild  lark 

Soars  from  his  nest  as  th'  pale  ghost  of  Summer 

Comes  for  a  few  short  weeks  to  wake  th'  grasses 

And  to  coax  the  few  strange  wild-flowers  into 


Poeins  of  Patriotism. 


Transient  bloom.     Next  comes  the  zone  of  singing 

Birds  and  mighty   forests,  whose  hills   are  girt 

With  trees,  whose  rivers  leap  in  gladness  and 

Run  gaily  on  past  meadows  green,  and  the 

Tasseled  fields  of  corn  and  billowy  seas 

Of  ripening  wheat,  the  land  of  singing 

Brooks  and  of  plenteous  harvests.     Land  of 

Green  valleys   and  of  prairies  wide,  vast   as 

Some  Old  World  empires.     Summer  and  Winter 

Hold  each  the  scepter  for  a  season  here, 

And  Winter  wears  his  robes  of  white  until 

Laughing  Spring  comes  tip-toe  o'er  the  way,  and 

Paves  a  path  for  blooming  Summer's  feet,  a 

Path  of  roses  and  other  blossoms  fair. 

The  Earth  smiles  at  her  coming  and  is  glad, 

And  makes  ready  her  rich  harvests  for  the 

Oncoming  Autumn,  whose  feet  are  sandaled 

With  swift-falling  leaves,  and  who  puts  on  robes 

Of  sober  brown  as  Winter  nears  again, 

To  take  the  scepter  from  her  hand  and  shroud 

The  Earth  in  his  white  and  frozen  silence. 

Then  on  we  pass  across  the  continent 

To  the  fair  borders  of  this  Sunset  Land, 

Where  all  the  year  is  like  a  golden  June, 

And  all  the  months  have  harvests  rich  and  rare, 

And  where  bird-song  is  never  out  of  tune, 

And  Growth  is  piping  gladly  everywhere. 

Our  fruitful  soil  cold  Winter  never  treads, 

All  blossom-garlanded  December  comes; 

The  orange  ripens  in  his  golden  air, 

Th'  bee  and  butterfly  within  his  sunshine 

Float;  the  lily  lifts  its  gracious  head  and 

Smiles;  our  vineyards  bend  beneath  their  ripened 

Vintage  rare,  and   glowing  clusters  lift  their 

Faces  to  the  Sun  in  joy;  pineapples 

Glad  us  with  their  lusciousness ;  bananas 

Beckon  in  their  yellow  sheen,  and  guavas, 

Garmented  with  rich  coloring,  do  tempt 

Our  lips  to  taste  their  juicy   fruit.     Here  glad 

December  walks  like  June,  and  ever  wears 

His  emerald  robes,  and  Day  forever 

Bids  us  out  of  doors,  'neath  bending  skies, 

Filled  full  of  warmth  and  light, 

And  arched  like  a  gleaming  sapphire  o'er  th'   world. 


IN  THE  TRACK  OF  EMPIRE.     (1903.) 

This  mighty  Southland,  cradled  in  the  West, 

Kissed  by  the  seas  and  crowned  by  mountains  high, 

Valleys  like  empires  lying  on  its  breast, 

And  fields  of  bloom  outspreading  countlessly — 

Is  the  great  land  the  Future  calls  its  own; 

Dominion  waiteth  here,  Freedom   aspires 
Amid  this  wondrous  beauty  to  enthrone 

The  wisdom  of  her  State,  kindle  her  fires 

As  beacon-lights  to  shine  around  the  world. 

And  Nature  is  her  priestess.    She  has  spread 
Her  glory  round  us,  and  she  has  unfurled 

Her  bannered  vastness,  with  swift  feet  has  fled 


From  Winter's  frozen  paths  to  walk  the  ways 
That   Summer's  hand  has  paved  with  blossoms  sweet: 

Divine  the  splendor  of  her  passing  days, 

Enchantment  weaves  the  sandals  for  her  feet. 

This  great  Southwest!     Unmeasured,  vast  and  grand, 
Its  mountains  near  the  stars,  its  waters  leap 

From  cloud-swept   heights,  its   forest  band 
Th'   unwhispered   secrets  of  the  ages  keep. 

For  centuries  'twas  hidden  from  the  world, 
Waiting  Time's  fullness  and  the  glorious  day 

When  Freedom's  flag  should  proudly  be  unfurled, 
And  Liberty  hold  here  its  perfect  sway. 

That  day  has  dawned,  and  now  'tis  ours  to  build 
For  the  great  Future,  wield  the  mighty  stroke 

That  shatters  Wrong,  to  teach  the  anthem  trilled 
By  waiting  Hope  since  first  the  race  was  born. 

Let  us  be  true,  rise  to  our  noble  trust ! 

Shape  mighty  deeds  to  make  our  Southland  great, 
Strike    at    Wrong   with   an   unyielding   thrust, 

Let  all  our  acts  lend  luster  to  the  State. 

THE  PRESIDENT  IN  THE  GREAT  WEST. 
(May  9,  1903-) 

The    great   West   opens   wide   her   golden    doors, 
Behind   which  mountains  rise  and   green   vales   lie, 

And  Beauty  walks  along  her  grassy  moors — 
The  land   of  vastness   with   its   panoply 

Of  lofty  peaks  and  wide-encircling  seas, 

And   Nature's  wonders   and   its  mysteries. 

The  great  West,  with  the  Star  of  Empire  crowned, 

Where  Freedom's  pulse  beats  strong  with  loyalty, 
Where  great  and  growing  cities  may  be   found — 

The  germs  of  greater  cities  yet  to  lie — 
The  world  of  Sun,  the  world  of  blooming  flowers — 
The   fairest  spot  in  this  loved  land  of  ours — 
Flings  wide  her  gates  with  welcome  in  her  air, 

With  bounding  pulses  as  she  hastes  to  greet 
The  Nation's  Chief — unfurls  her  banners  fair, 

To  crown  the  pathways  of  his  coming  feet, 
And  brings  her  homage  to  her  uncrowned  king, 
Fealty  and  love  her  willing  offering. 

OUR  COUNTRY.     (1904.) 

How  vast  our  country  and  how  wide  outspread, 
Dimpled  by  lakes,  by  shining  rivers  fed, 
Bordered  by  mighty  "half-world  seas"  that  lie 
A  trackless  highway  underneath  the  sky; 
With  towering  mountains  lifted  to  the  blue, 
Touching  the  spaces  where  the  stars  look  through; 
Valleys  like  empires  in  their  boundless  sweep, 
And  wondrous  falls  where  the  white  waters  leap, 
With  rainbows  on  their  forehead,  and  their  voice 
Rending  the  air   like  thunder;   cities  like  choice 
Jewels  uncounted  rise  from  sea  to  sea, 
Great   forests  lift   their  heads  in  majesty; 
Like  billowy  seas  the  rippling   wheat-fields  lie, 


100 


McKinley. 


Touched  by  the  breeze,  their  whispered  melody 

Is  Plenty's  song,  so  low  and  sweet  and  clear 

It  sweeps  the  chords  of  the  whole  atmosphere. 

Kissed  by   the  sunlight,  the  cornfields   golden   glow, 

The  cotton-fields  are  white  as  drifted  snow; 

Great  orchards  smile  and  vineyards  stretch  afar, 

Unnumbered  crops  the  vast  wide  spaces  star. 

Blest  land  of  Freedom !  most  divinely  fair, 

A  land  like  thee  we  find  not  anywhere; 

Xo  land  beneath  the  stars  can  vie  with  thee, 

If  true  to   Right  and  blessed  Liberty. 

M'KINLEY. 

[Read  by  Rev.  Robert  Mclntyre,  D.D.,  at  the  dedication  of  the 
McKinley    Arch    at   Avery,    January    7,    1904.] 

God  took  of  common  clay  and  made  a  man, 

One  great   in  the  majesty  of  manhood, 

And  grand  in  his  nobility  of  soul; 

Purity    carved    out   the   wondrous    texture 

From  which  his  life  was  wrought,  and  tenderness 

Was   in   the  woof  of   character.     Duty 

And   Right  stood   as   sponsors   for  him,  and   high 

Intelligence  and  love — love   for  man— poised 

His  great  brain  and  made  him  wholly  fit  for 

The  lofty  pedestal  of  power.     His 

White  life  was  Christlike,  and  he  held  himself 

The  servant  of  the  people.     In  his  large 

Heart  he  bore  their  needs,  and  with  unfaltering 

Purpose  sought  to  answer  them.     His  own  wants 

He  crucified   whene'er   in   conflict   came 

They  with  the  Nation's  needs.     The  mountains,  lift 

Unto  the  skies,   rock-ribbed   and   moveless,   are 

Not  more  fixed  than  his  grand  purpose,  which  stood 

As  firm  and  changeless  as  their  eternal 


Heights  where  the  Right  called  for  his  sustaining 

Strength,  and  Wrong  was  to  be  crushed  by  the 

Iron-shod  feet  of  Duty.     The  hills  may  tremble 

Beneath  the  earthquake's  shock  and  shrink   from 

Their  firm   foundations,  but  never  would  he 

Falter  or  turn  aside  when  Duty's  voice 

Called  him  to  action.     He  was  a  tower 

Of  noble  purpose,  and  yet  a  man  whose 

Tenderness  might  touch  the  stars;  whose  justice 

Was   far-seeing  as  the  Sun;  whose  love  was 

Measureless  as  are  the  Ocean's  tides;  whose 

Pity  was  like  a   sea   un fathomed,  and 

Whose  high  sense  of  Right  was  strong  as  the 

Tornado's  sweep  that  lifts  the  sands  and  bows 

The  giant  trees.     Great  man  and  true!     The  long, 

Long  centuries  of  Time  shall  breathe  thy 

Name,  and   the   unforgetting  patriot 

Generations  shall  to  their  children  teach 

It  as  the  synonym  of  all  that's  great 

And  high  in  noble,  loyal  manhood.     So 

Here  we  raise  to  thy  imperishable 

Memory  this  arch  of  stone,  and  as  it 

Stands  and   fronts  the  shining  skies,  and   fronts  the 

Countless  stars  and  the   vast  mountain  heights  that 

Lift  their  heads  to  heaven,  it  shall  speak  unto 

The  winds  of  thee,  and  they  shall  waft  thy  name 

Afar,  and  the  stars  shall  hear,  and  the  glad 

Sun  nurse  it  in  tenderness  and  write  it 

On  the  sky  with  his  bright  beam;  and  coming 

Generations   shall   exclaim,   McKinley ! 

The  dearest  synonym  for  patriot, 

And   for  blameless,  high-souled   manhood. 

Watchword  of  Liberty,  the  land  you  loved 

Will  write  in  noble  deeds  thy  name,  which  cannot  die. 


101 


06  and  Stature. 


Where  God  thunders  in  billows  of  storm. ' ' 


NATURE'S  VOICES.     (1882.) 

"Day     unto     day     uttereth     speech,     and     night     unto     night 
sheweth  knowledge." 

The  trailing  robes  of  the  departing  Day 

Swept  all  the  mountain  tops,  lying  in 

Sunset  beauty  on  their  crests  like  gossamer 

Of  rubies,  transparent,  clear  and  shining 

As  the  rich  warm  gold  of  June's  bright  sunshine. 

How  all  the  heights  stood  up   transfigured !  How 

Glowed  the  peaks,  as  leaning  on  the  broad  blue 

Breast  of  Heaven,  the  skies  bent  down  and  kiss'd 

Them.     How  seemed  to  stretch  the  higher  peaks,  and 

Thrust   their  bare  heads   into  the  infinite 

Air,  as  if  searching  for  the  hidden  heart 

That  throbs  within  the  starry  deep  of  worlds. 

And  as  Night  dropped  down  and  spread  her  star-wrought 

Mantle  o'er  the  earth,  it  seemed  as  if  my 

Spirit  caught  from  far  a  silence  that  was 

Full  of  speech — day  calling  unto  day,  and 

Night   to   night   in   echoless   whispers, 

Filling  all  of  space. 

II.   (1888.) 

Yesterday  was  fair  and  sweet,  so  gay 
With  bird-song  and  with  light  as  if  some  way 
The  air  had  turned  to  honey  and  to  wine, 
And  music  rare  that  was  divine 
In  fullness.     The  brooks  had  melody, 
And  even  the  breezes  blew 
In  tune,  with  undertone 
Of  harmony,  as  through 
The  leaves  they  wandered,  stirring 
Them  to  wordless  hymns,  and  purring 
Amid  the  soft-lipped  flowers, 
As  if  a  soul  within  them  hid— 
A  wonderful  musical  soul — did 
Answer  with  perfume,  and  pour 
Its  heart  out  unto  them,  a  heart  more 
Sweet  than  the  kiss  of  a  child. 
Oh,  tell  me  not  that  the  wild 
Sweet  flowers  have  never  a  soul, 
For  under  and  over  the  whole 
Of  God's  world  we  find  speech, 
Though  the  tongue  be  not  human.     Each 
Flower  and  green-springing  blade 
On  hillside  and  valley  and  glade; 
Each  stream  that  flows  on  to  the  sea, 
Each  star  that  far  shining  we  see, 
Each  cloud  with  Jhe  storm  in  its  breast, 
Each  mount  with  its  uplifted  crest 
Leaning  near  to  the  sun, 
And  Old  Ocean,  starred  with  its  isles 
Where  God  thunders  in  billows  of  storm,  or  smiles 
In  the  silvery  waves  which  creep  to  the  shore, 
And  bathe  the  white  sands  evermore, 
All  have  voice  of  their  Maker  divine. 


OUT-OF-DOORS.     (1885.) 

I  was  out  in  November's  sunshine, 

And  the  Earth,  though  brown,  was  warm, 

And  the  skies  were  as  blue  as  the  Summer  skies 
Of  a  cloudless  May-day  morn. 

And  I  heard  the  cricket  singing 

His  merriest,  happiest  song, 
"Crickety,  creak,  chirpety  chirp," 

It  hummed  as  it  hopped  along. 

And  the  little  fat  gopher,  sleek  and  brown, 

Came  peeping  up  out  of  the  ground, 
And  his  cunning  black  eyes  they  twinkled  at  me, 

As  he  sat  there  looking  around. 

And   a  squirrel   came  up   with  a  whisk   of  his   tail, 

And  nodded  his  head  on  the  sly; 
And  a  large  golden  butterfly,  spotted  with  red, 

Like  a  blossom  with  wings  floated  by. 

And   the   ants    formed    a   long   marching   column   which 

passed, 

With  never  a  step  out  of  line; 
Up  and  down  the  tall  tree-trunk  they  came  and  they 

went, 
With  never  a  laggard  behind. 

And  the  honey-bee  buzzed  on  the  edge  of  a  flower, 

Then  in  for  its  honey  he  went, 
Then  out  he  came  and  went  flying  away 

With  a  buzz  that  was  full  of  content. 

And  the  house-fly  came  sunning  himself  in  the  air, 
And  his  soft  gauzy  wings  were  outspread, 

And  a  big,  happy  spider  was  spinning  away 
On  his  web  right  over  my  head. 

And  I  saw  a  black  beetle  who  was  up  and  astir, 

And  a  caterpillar  running  away, 
And  a  lady-bug  hurrying  down  from  a  rose, 

As  if  she'd  not  a  moment  to  stay. 

And  the  pigeons  flew  down  from  the  roof  overhead, 
And  their  colors  shone  bright  in  the  sun, 

And  a  brown-breasted  bird  in  the  tall  cedar  tree 
Just  the  sweetest  of  songs  then  begun. 

And  I  lay  on  the  ground,  contented  and  glad, 

For  the  world  was  so  lovely  and  fair, 
I  could  not  be  lonely,  I  could  not  be  sad, 

For  all  things  were  glad  that  were  there. 

TENTING  ON  THE  CANYON'S  SHORE. 

(Santa  Cruz  Island,  1887.) 

The  Dawn  comes  dewy-sandaled  o'er  the  heights, 
So  airy-footed  that  we  hear  no  sound; 
The  sky  leans  down  to  touch  the  lofty  crest 
Where  trails  Morn's   garments;  birds  sing   from   cast   to 
west, 


102 


The  Lore  of  God. 


And  breezes  stir  light-winged  amid  the  trees, 

And  waves  breathe  low  their  welcome  from  the  seas. 

The  first  faint  flush  of  Dawn  we  cannot  see, 
For  the  green-blossomed  hills  here  intervene, 
Lifting  a  world-high  wall  between  us  and  the  Sun, 
But   from  our  leaf-roofed  chambers  we  behold 
The  far  stars  fade,  the  blue  turn  swift  to  gold. 

We  see  from  out  the  darkness  creep  the  crests 
Of  circling  hills  that  bound  the  canons  deep; 
First  brightens  their  dim  outline,  and  then,  lo! 
The  baby  oaks  they  nurse  upon  their  breasts. 

At  length  we  see  the  cacti's  branches  spread, 
All  crucified  with  many  thousand  thorns; 
And  trailing  vines  that   from  the  gray  rocks  hang 
With  leaves  of  green,  and  blossoms  amber-hued, 
Like  golden  altars  in  this  solitude. 

Down  thread-like  canons  steal  the  crystal  brooks- 
Each  water-drop  a  silvery  note  of  song — 
Laughing  amid  the  rocks  and  singing  low, 
Leaping  in  cascades  down,  they  onward  flow 
Till  Silence  folds  them,  and  they  fall  asleep 
In  quiet  pools  upon  the  canon's  breast, 
Cradled  in  shadow  of  o'erhanging  crest. 

Brightens  the  world,  and  lo!  the  sea  is  spread 
From  beach  to  the  horizon's  distant  line. 
Blue  as  the  bending  skies  that  hang  o'erhead. 
How  creep  the  waves  and  thrust  their  fingers  white 
Round  the  sharp-pointed   rocks.     Soft   flecks  of   foam 
Play  'mid  the  pebbles,  then  the  waters  run 
Swift  rippling  backward,  then  make  rush  once  more 
To  tell  their  story  to  the  waiting  shore— 

The  shore  upon  whose  bosom  we  may  rest; 

Its   narrow   frill  of  sands   and  pebbles   gray 

Bordering  the  green,  where  tufted  grasses  grow, 

While  flowers,  like  jewels,  lie  upon  its  breast, 

And  pyramids  of  rocks  stand  scarred  and  old, 

With  Sphinx-like  faces  turning  to  the  blue 

Of  the  light  waves  that  steal  their  channel  through. 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  from  the  great  world  to  go 
And  hide  ourselves  within  the  silent  heart 
Of  the  deep  cafton;  to  lie  beneath  the  sky, 
Uplooking  to  it  where  the  green  boughs  spread 
Of  grand  old  oaks,  or  where  a  narrow  line, 
Like  God's  own  finger,  reaching  to  the  hills, 
It  lies  above  us  like  a  thing  divine. 

We're  better  for  this  pause,  our  hearts  grow  up 
To  Beauty,  and  our  thoughts  run  wide 
From  worldliness;  each  tree  and  flower, 
Each  grassy  blade  and  softly-running  brook 
Is  but  one  page  of  Nature's  open  book- 
God's  alphabet  of  wisdom  written  clear 
In  sunlight,  starlight  and  the  mighty  sea — 
The  sea,  whose  tidal  anthems  we  may  hear. 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD.     (1894.) 

The  love  of  God,  which  is  so  vast  and  deep, 
I   feel  it  in  the  wind  that  falls  asleep, 
Hocking  the  roses  on  its  pulsing  breast, 
Holding  the  lily  in  its  soft  caress. 

I  feel  it  in  the  sunshine  glimmering  down. 
Golden  in  brightness,  falling  like  a  crown 
On  mountain's  crest,  and,  like  a  living  tide 
Of  tenderness,  outflowing  far  and  wide. 

I   feel  it   in  the  grass  and  in  the  flowers, 
Breathing  their  perfume  through  the  golden  hours, 
And  in  the  note  of  every  bird  that  sings, 
And  in  the  vine's  low,  tender  whisperings  — 

In  the  blue  sky,  a  flawless  sapphire  spread 
With  glory  beaming  far  above  my  head; 
In  earth  and  air  and  all  the  boundless  deep 
Where,  twin  with  sky,  the  mighty  oceans  sleep. 

KINDRED  WITH  NATURE.     (1895.) 

There's  that  within  me  which  does  ever  feel 

Its  kinship  with  the  Earth — the  wide,  sweet  Earth, 

Environed  with  its  atmosphere  of  calm, 

Its  sky  jeweled  with  stars  and  lit  with  suns, 

And  its  broad,  green  lap  silvered  with  rivers, 

And  walled  round  with  majestic  mountain  heights. 

Capped  with  white  snows  or  thick  with   wooded   spires, 

Rising  till  their  loftiest  pinnacles 

Seem  fretted  with  the  ever-twinkling  stars. 

Then,  purpling,  they  dream  at  last  upon  the 

Breast  of  Night,  or,  waking,  smile  within  the 

Clasp  of  Day,  which  baptizes  them  with  light 

As  if  new-born,  though  great  and  vast  as  heaven; 

And  the  sea,  spreading  its  pulsing  deeps  so 

Far  they  touch  the  Orient,  where  first  man 

Lay  cradled  on  the  breast  of  Time.     Away 

Their   shining   waters   run,  shadowed   sometimes 

With  storms,  then  their  wrinkled  waves  are  smoothed 

By  fragrant  calms  borne  from  far  lands  of  spice, 

From   vales   sun-lit,   rose-filled,   where   bright   birds   sing 

And  tropic  loveliness  a-swoon  does  lie 

Within  the  noontide's  stillness.     The  world  speaks 

To  me  with  thousand  tongues  that  hide  within 

Each  leaf  and  grassy  blade,  each  petal  of 

A   flower,  each  bush,  each  tree,  each  perfect 

Rounded  grain  of  sand,  and  rainbowed  drop  of 

Crystal  water;  within  each  pebble,  so 

Carved  unto  perfection,  and  each  sunbeam 

'W  ith  its  gold  melted  to  fullest  brightness. 

Sweet  are  the  idylls  rivulets  do  tone 

In  silver  notes  as  they  do  onward  run. 

The  harmonious  anthems  chanted  by 

The  river's  voice  seem  ever  to  repeat 

Truths  wonderful,  as  does  the  mighty  sea, 

And  all  the  breathing  winds,  low-voiced  as  love, 

As  they  were  living  this  fair  life  with  me, 

As  if  somewhere  a  soul  were  waiting   for 

Them  through  which  they  might  find  the  Eternal. 


103 


God  and  Nature. 


I  lay  my  ear  to  the  warm  breast  of  Earth 

As  if  to  hear  the  baby  roots  astir, 

To  catch  the  trickling  raindrops  as  the  soil 

Drinks  in  their   fullness,  rejoicingly 

Moistening  their  lips  within  the  glad  Earth's 

Nursing  bosom,  where  does  hidden  lie  the 

Mystery  of  growth.     How  does  life  touch  them 

There  with  the  glad  breath  of  resurrection? 

And  what  are  life  and  growth,  those  strange 

And  mysterious   forces  working  so 

Silently,  so  unrestingly  through  all 

The  vast,  wide  realm  of  God's  great  universe, 

Wherever  circle  stars  and  suns  and  the 

Far  planetary  spheres;  where'er  is  thrust 

A  root  into  the  wide  Earth's  ready  soil? 

I  held  within  my  hands  a  little  blade 

Of  grass,  so  cunningly  shaped,  so  perfect 

Tn  its  texture,  so  rich  in  coloring 

That  it  became  my  teacher.     It  seemed  to 

Ask,  am  I  not  marvelous?     Say,  can  you 

Explain  the  secret  of  my  growth — how  life  creeps 

Into  the  tiny  seed  and  sets  my  roots 

To  stirring  in  the  silent  dark  of  the 

Great  Earth's  bosom?     What  force  is  it  that  gives 

My  young  life  strength  to  thrust  itself  up 

From  its  earth  sepulcher  into  the  air 

And  the  warm  heaven  of  sunshine?     How  springs 

At  last  my  tender,  emerald  leaf,  filled 

With  its  succulent  richness  for  the  hungry 

Kine?     What   force  is  it  that,  silent  and 

Unresting,  day   by  day,   lengthens  my  slender 

Blade,  and  then  at  length  does  bid  it  pause  in 

Full  completeness?     You  say  'tis  Nature's  law. 

But  what  is  Nature's  law?     Is  it  some  blind 

Force  hidden  in  matter,  some  unconscious 

Agent  that  vrith  unerring  skill  doth  year 

By  year,  and  age  by  age,  unfailing 

Fashion  me  always  the  same  in  color, 

Shape  and  texture?     Is  Matter  vaster  in 

Its  skill  than  Mind?     Nay,  thou  sayest;  yet  look 

Among  thy  race  and  find,  if  so  thou  canst, 

A  man  to  form  me — one  who  can  create 

A  single  grassy  spear,  or  shape  the  seed 

From  which  it  springs,  and  give  it  strength  to  grow. 

You  cannot.     Then  will  you  proclaim  that  Nature 

Is  my  Maker?  That  dull,  senseless  matter  can 

Create  even  the  tiny  seed  from  which 

I  spring?     Nay,  behind  all  growth,  all  being, 

Animate  and  inanimate,  above 

All  law — law  being  but  the  expression 

Uniform  of  this  controlling  will — is 

God,  the  Infinity,  thy  God  and  mine. 

BIBLE  PICTURES.     (1896.) 
Come  back,  O  Past!  and  let  us  look  today 
Into  thy  vanished  face.     How  beautiful 
The  chosen  land,  and  fair,  and  oh,  how  soft 
The  murmur  of  sweet  Kedron's  brook !  how  green 
The  blessed  hills  uplift  against  the  blue! 


How  fair  the  city  nestling  in  the  sun! 

The  shad'wy  palms  that  drop  their  cooling  shade; 

The  olive  trees,  pale-silvered  in  the  light; 

The  golden  blossoms  by  the  highway  there; 

The  lilies  of  the  field,  dew-filled  and  white; 

The   high-domed   temple   on   Moriah's   height; 

The  hill  of  Zion,  palace-crowned,  we  see; 

Jerusalem,  joy  of  the  earth!  e'en  as 

The  mountains  round  about  thee  are,  so  is 

The  Lord  about  his  people,  loving  them, 

Ready  to  bear  for  them,  His  own,  the  shame, 

The  anguish  of  the  bitter  Cross.     How  vast 

The  mocking  throng  threading  its  dusty  way 

To  Calvary !     The  Roman  and  the  Jew 

Haste  jostling  on.     The  way  is  thronged  by  those 

Who  long  in  their  own  hearts  had  nursed  the  hope 

That  He,  the  Nazarene,  the  wonder-worker, 

Who  the  dead  had  raised  and  made  the  deaf  to 

Hear,  and  made  sightless  eyes  to  see,  and  dumb 

laps  filled  with  speech,  was  He  whom  Israel 

Waited,  the  King  and  Savior,  who  should  lift 

The  hated  Roman  yoke  and  set  them  free. 

And  there  are  those  who  hiss  their  hate  and  scorn, 

AVho  cry  aloud  in  wanton  unbelief, 

"Others  He  saved,  Himself  He  cannot  save." 

The  Roman  spears  gleamed  savage  in  the  light, 

Like  a  great  wave  the  human  tide  flows  on, 

All   faces  turned  to  Calvary.     Upon 

One  side  stands  tearfully  and  still,  each  face 

Anguished  and  white,  with  eyes  fixed  moveless  on 

The  spot  where  lies  the  Cross,  where  brutal  hands 

Are  stripping  the  royal  purple  in  which 

With  mockery  Herod  had  clothed  the  Christ, 

The  patient  Nazarene— the  little  band 

Of  loving  followers.     No  words  they  speak 

As  hundreds  wall  them  round.     Nothing  they  see 

But  the  white  face  of  Him  on  whom  is  laid, 

In  that  dark  hour,  th'  whole  world's  sins. 

They  hear  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  crowd, 

They  see  the  Crown  of  Thorns  upon  His  brow, 

And  the  blood  from  His  torn  forehead  trickling 

Down,  the  cruel  arm  that  thrusts  the  reed  as 

Scepter  into  His  hand.     Then  comes  the  sound 

Of  hammer's  stroke  as  nails  are  driven  through 

The  quivering  flesh.     The  Cross  is  lifted, 

The  bleeding  feet  and  hands  of  Christ  fast  to 

Its  wood,  and  there  on  either  side  of  Him, 

"King  of  the  Jews,"  the  wretched  malefactors. 

How  shall  we  tell  the  story  of  that  day, 

When  Earth  stood  shuddering  in  dumb  amaze, 

And  the  far  Sun  with  lidless  eye  looked  down, 

Beholding  her,  while  trembling  for  her  sin, 

And  all  the  stars  their  faces  veiled  as  the 

Day  grew  black  with  horror?     Angelic  hosts 

With   drooping  wings  hovered   o'er  Calvary, 

Longing  to  lift  Him  from  the  shameful  Cross, 

But  stayed  by  the  purpose  of  His  own  will — 

The  Holy  Sufferer's,  working  for  us 

Redemption.     The  end  is  near,  when  on  the 

Silent  air,  sweet  as  the  melody  of 


104 


The  Penitent. 


Heaven,  is  heard  the  Christ  voice  once  again, 
As  lifting  dying,  anguished  eyes  He  cries, 
"Father,  forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they 
Do!"     And,  then,  as  if  God  touched  Him,  lo!  His 
Face  shines  like  a  sun  beneath  th'  darkened  sky, 
And  as  if  blessed  angels  speak,  we  hear 
Triumphant,  sweet,  and  sounding  in  all  ears, 
Words  that  shall  gladden  men  amid  their  tears 
Till  time  shall  end:     "Lo,  I  the  Resurrection 
Am  and  Life;  believe  in  me  and  ye  shall 
Never  die." 

Then  comes  the  mighty  earthquake's  awful  shock, 
When  the  hills  reel,  and  Death  opes  wide  his  doors' 
Amid  the  rock-hewn  tombs.     The  dead  conic  forth 
Drinking  of  life  again,  their  long  silent 
Pulses  stirred  once  more  to  fullness  by  Christ's 
Life-giving  name.     The  Temple's  veil  is  rent, 
And  the  jeering  crowd  is  hushed  to  silence. 
Well  may  the  people  smite  upon  their  breasts 
And  cry,  "Surely  this  was  the  Son  of  God!" 

The  first  day  of  the  week  dawns  calm  and  clear; 

The  air  is  sweet  and  still,  with  flowery 

Odors  fragrant.     The  earth  breathes  soft  as  a 

Young  babe  upon  its  mother's  breast,  resting 

In  dreamless  slumber.     Not  a  leaf  pendant 

On  its  green  stem  stirs  in  the  cool  dawn.     The 

Earth  seems  hushed  to  waiting.     But  at  length  the 

Day  breathes   freer.     Dawn   brightens  o'er  the  watching 

Peaks  of  Moab,  and  Olivet  is  flushed 

With  golden  gleams.     The  Temple's  dome  is  like 

Transfigured  light,  and  Mount  Moriah  is 

Bright  as  a  glowing  sapphire,  while  all  the  mounts 

About  the  Holy  City  are  a-gleam 

Like  a  fire-opal  full  of  changing  lights 

And  rainbowed  beauty.     A  little  thrill  runs 

Through  the  shining  leaves  of  camphire  wood,  and 

Through  the  many  palms  and  silvered  olives, 

And  like  a  tongue  of  flame  the  sunbeams   fall 

Within  the  breast  of  Kedron's  rippling  waters. 

The  joyous  birds  amid  the  many  boughs 

Break  into  song,  as  if  each  feathered  breast 

Were  brimmed  with  melody.     Then  unto  the 

Holy  Sepulcher,  with  sorrowing  faces, 

Wet  with  the  dew  of  tears,  the  women  come 

With  spices  laden   and  perfumed  ointments, 

And  speaking  thus  do  they  draw  near  His  tomb: 

"The  dear  Lord,  we  will  anoint  Him  for  His 

Burial.     His  Sepulcher  fragrant  as 

Love  shall  be,  and  sweet  as  the  memory 

Of  His  undying  words.     But  who  shall  roll 

Away  the  stone,  the  heavy  stone  at  the 

Grave's  mouth  where  He  is  laid?" 

O  blessed  Marys  at  the  blessed  tomb, 

Angels  await  your  coming,  shining  ones, 

With  Heaven's  light  on  their  faces  fright  the  gloom, 

Make  glorious  the  Sepulcher.     Blessed 

The  words  they  speak  and  full  of  hope  to  men : 

"The  Christ  is  risen,  for  He  hath  conquered    Death." 


GOD,  NATURE  AND  I.     (1897.) 

The  sky !  how  blue  it  looks  today,  how  fair ! 

No  cloud  within  the  infinite  deep  of  air; 

The   winds   run  softly  through   its  shining  ways, 

As  if  half  dreaming  still  of  Summer  days 

When  on  the  breast  of  Calm  they  slept,  while  low 

They   breathed,   and   all    the   tender,   leaf-crowned    trees 

Stood  hushed  and  still,  as  if  they  feared  to  stir 

The  pulseless  silence.     Only  the  soft  whirr 

Of  bird-wings  broke  the  stillness.     Flowers  smiled 

In  gardens  and  upon  the  hillsides  wild, 

As  if  a  soul  were  in  them  which  did  know 

The  gladness  and  the  glory  which  do  flow 

From  Nature's  heart  when,  warm  and  bright   and   fair, 

She  nurses  Summer  in  the  sunlight,  where 

Life  takes  form,  and  beauty  has  its  birth, 

And  hastes  to  garment  all  the  glad,  sweet  ?:arth. 

When  all  the  world  is  glad,  why  should  not  we 
Be  glad  with  it  in  fullest  sympathy, 
And   hear  the  voices   which   the  breezes  bring 
As  well  as  those  of  happy  birds  which  sing, 
And  note  the  joy  within  the  blossoms'  smile, 
And  list  the  murmur  of  the  streams,  the  while 
They,  rushing  seaward  sing,  yet  ever  pour 
Their  tuneful  resonance  unto  the  shore? 

Oh,  life  is  sweet,  with  Nature's  pulsing  heart 
Throbbing  with  tenderness.     Kindred  witli  it  am  I, 
And  love,  sweet  love,  I  find  in  earth  and  sky; 
The  world  was  made  for  me,  its  heart  is  mine, 
And  of  its  fullness  I  am  but  a  part, 
God  made  it  all,  and  I,  O  God !  am  thine, 
The  blessed  cradle  of  my  rest,  Thy  heart. 


THE  PENITENT.     (1898.) 

O  still  the  night  and  starless;  all  the  dark 

Of  dusky  skies  and  cloud  was  overhead; 

The  winds  were  sleeping,  and  all  sound  seemed  dead 
On  the  bare  plains  far  from  the  city's  streets. 
But  one  there  was  who  walked  alone.     And  hark! 

The  silence  stirs;  the  still  and  shuddering  air 

Shrinks  at  the  cry  of  that  lone  soul's  despair. 
"Alone,  alone  with  my  great  crime  for  aye1 
It  walks  with  me  and  will  walk  till  I  die!" 

A  maniac  shriek  he  gives,  looks  at  his  hand, 

Rubs  it,  tears  at  it,  yet  still  the  brand 
Of  Cain  he  sees,  red,  red  is  it  with  blood. 

"O  wash  it,  wash  it  white,"  he  cries,  and  then 
In  that  lone  desert,  far  from  sound  of  men, 

In  the  white  sand  he  wallows,  and  shrieking 
Until  the  circling  vultures  seem  to  shrink, 
And  starts  the  lion  at  the  desert's  brink. 
Then  came  wild  wails  and  sounds  of  bitter  weeping, 
And  then  mad  lauphtcr,  as  his  soul  were  swayed 
By  demons;  then  a  soft  sigh  his  laughter  stayed. 


105 


God  and  Nature. 


He  rose  and   knelt   upon  the  sands  and  prayed. 
His  soul  grew  calm   as  on  the  desert's  brow 
Fell  the  first  light  of  sunrise.     Holy  now 

That  desert  place,  a  penitent  was  there 

Whom  God  had  heard  and  blessed  with  answered  pray'r. 

In  such  grand  temple  it  is  good  to  be. 


GOD'S  POEMS.     (1898.) 

The  sunsets  of  the  year!  The  mist  of  gold 
Drips  through  them  ail  as  ever  fold  on  fold 
The  crimson  clouds  do  wrap  us  in  their  light, 
And  Glory  seems  through  them  to  take  her  flight, 
Spreading  her  wings  within  the  shining  West, 
Holding  the  world  upon   her  burnished  breast. 

The  mountains  leap  to  her  and  breathe  anew 

In  their  warm  splendor,  and  the  valleys,  too, 

Seem  heaven-horn  as  the  sunset's  light 

Smiles  full  on  them   until  they  swift  grow  bright 

As  silently  heaven's  blessed  rain  of  gold, 

Like  some  swift  deluge,  does  the  land  enfold. 

Xot  Earth  alone  this  sunset  glory  fills, 
For  human  hearts  do  open,  and  it  thrills 
And  fills  them,  too,  and  men  grow  better  then, 
Richer  in  faith,  higher  in  purpose,  when 
The  poems  of  God's  love  are  thus  unrolled 
In  the  full  splendor  of  the  sunset's  gold. 


THE  MIRACLES  OF  NATURE.     (1899.) 

The  little  flower  lifts  up  its  head 

Unto  the  bending  sky, 
As  if  it  sought  to  learn  and  know 

Life's    wondrous   mystery. 

O  shining  blades  of  grass !  how  great 

The  marvel  that  ye  be, 
Man's  utmost  skill  could  never  make 

Such  perfect  things  as  ye. 

O  leaf  upon  the  swaying  bough  ! 

Dropping  soft  shadows   down; 
The  shapely  tree-trunk  lifted  high 

Doth  wear  you  like  a  crown. 

No  sculptor's  hand  could  chisel  here 
Such  perfect  thing  and  fair, 

With  life  within  each  tiny  vein, 
And  motion  pulsing  there. 

O  water-drops  within  the  stream 

That  shimmer  in  the  Sun ! 
A  perfect  globe,  a  wondrous  sphere, 

Hides  in  you,  every  one. 

O  little  grain  of  sand !  so  white, 

So  shapely  do  ye  lie, 
More  perfect  is  not  star  or  sun 

Within  the  far-off  skv. 


O  Nature!  folded  in  thy  hand 
On  every  hillside's  breast, 

On  every  plain  beneath  the  Sun, 
A  miracle  doth  rest. 


A   miracle  of  power  and   love, 

Of  skill  that  is  divine; 
Each  tree,  each  blade  of  grass,  each  flow'r, 

Father  of  all,  is  Thine: 

Formed  by  Thy  hand.     The  shining  Sun, 

The  great,  unresting  Sea, 
All  things  are  Thine  which  Nature  shows, 

And  Thine,  like  them,  are  we. 


OUR  FATHER.     (1899.) 

The  great,  blue  heavens  look  down  as  if  to  find 
A  soul  within  the  Earth,  an  answering  mind; 
For  they  are  lonely  in  their  cloudless  light, 
E'en  when  the  Sun  shines  gloriously  bright, 
And  swiftly  down  steals  the  soft-footed  breeze 
To  templed  aisles  amid  the  swaying  trees — 
Steals  in  and  out  amid  the  smiling  whole 
Of  sky  and  Earth,  as  if  it  had  a  soul 
To  bear  to  Earth  the  whisper  of  the  skies 
As  it  in  hushed  and  wondrous  beauty  lies. 

Somewhere  in  hiding  there  must  surely  be 

The  soul  of  things  which  throbbeth  warm  and   free, 

Perhaps  the  winds  which  silent- footed  do. 

Through  the  vast  highways  of  the  shining  blue. 

And  the  sweet  woods  and  meadow  spaces  far, 

Steal  on  us  as  sure  as  light  of  sun  or  star, 

In  occult   language  which   we   do   not   know, 

Bear  some  sweet  message  as  they  onward  go — 

Whispers  of  love  and  of  divinest  care, 

Of  the  great   Power  which  keeps  us  everywhere. 

And  the  glad  birds  which  sing  today  so  sweet, 

Perhaps  great   Nature's  yearning  heart  repeat, 

And  bud  and  blossom  make  their  swift  reply 

To  rolling  sea  and  overarching  sky. 

The  drowsy  hum  of  many  million  bees, 

The  leaf-tongued  voices  of  the  swaying  trees, 

May  lisp  some  words  our  spirits  do  not  hear, 

Rut  which  are  caught  by  Nature's  listening  ear. 

But  somewhere,  somewhere  over  all  is  One 

Who  cradles  Earth  within  His  tender  hand, 

Who  sees   each   leaf,   each  blossom's   opening   face, 

Each  blade  of  grass,  and  gives  to  each  its  place, 

And  hears  each  voice  from  shining  sea  and  land, 

And  all  their  needs  does   fully  understand. 

He  is  Our  Father,  and  like  Nature  we 

Are  all  His  care,  and  'tis  His  ministry 

Guards  Earth,  sky,  sea,  and  'tis  His  love  that  broods 

O'er  life  and  growth,  and  in  Earth's  solitudes. 


106 


Orn  nipretcn  t   Drity. 


And,  O  my  soul !  how  it  doth  long  to  know 

More  of  this  Father,  and  to  truly  feel 

Within   my   heart    His   great   love's   overflow, 

And  sometimes  by  a   sweet-tongued  flower  I   kneel 

And   feel  Him  near,  feel  that  He's  in  that  place, 

As  if  I'd  met  Him  in  it,  face  to  face, 

Know  that  in  all  things  God's  own  life  abides, 

In  sky  and  earth  and  ocean's  restless  tides. 


OMNIPRESENT  DEITY.     (1901.) 

The  tall  tree,  with  its  branches  o'er  my  head — 

Its  million  leaves  like  many  whisp'ring  tongues — 

Gleams   in  the   golden   sunshine  whicli   is   on    it   shed 

Like  blessed  benediction  from  above; 

The  shining  leaves  seem  like  a  happy  smile, 

And  I  do  hear  sweet  whispers  from  the  flow'rs 

That  breathe  but   gladness   through   the  golden   hours. 

The  em'rald  grasses  nod  their  bright  young  heads, 
As  fall  the  sunbeams  down  upon  their  face; 
They  drink  the  light  like  wine  and  grow  apace; 
The  brown  old  Earth  is  now  no  longer  bare, 
And  we  do  see  God's  glory  everywhere; 
Something  of  His  own  being  He  hath  shed 
In  all  the  beauty  that's  around  us  spread. 

In  all  this  great,  fair  world  no  chance  is  seen; 

When  Time  began  God  spake  and  it  was  done, 

System  on  system  into  being  sprung, 

Vast  voids  are  filled  with  countless  circling  worlds, 

And  at  His  voice  the  heaving  ocean  curls 

Its  restless  tides  about  the  barren  shore, 

Lashing  the  rocks  but  leaping  nevermore 

O'er  the  wide  continent,  their  proud  waves  stayed 
By  His  command,  His  fiat  they  obey; 
"Thus  far,  no  farther  shall  ye  go;"  the  land 
Lies  calm  though  seas  are  beating  at  its  gates; 
God's  law  enfolds  it,  and  secure  it  lies, 
Like  a  vast  emerald  beneath  the  skies, 
And  Growth  forever  at  its  footstool  waits. 


O  Growth !     its  wondrous  mystery  do  we 

Behold,  yet  cannot   fathom  it — in  vain, 

As  grasses  upward  creep  so  silently 

And  buds  unfold,  and  trees  rise  toward  the  blue, 

Is  vision  strained,  no  motion  do  we  see. 

No   sound    from    all   these   growing   things   we   hear, 

We  only  feel  that  God  himself  is  near. 

For  Nature's  laws  are  but  the  mode  He  takes 
To  work  His  will;  life  at  His  touch  doth  wake, 
We  know  not  how  or  whence  He  calls  it  here, 
We  only  know  the  sun-filled  atmosphere 
Is  vital  with  His  presence;  no  atom  sleeps 
Where  God  is  not,  for  boundless  space  doth  lie 
Within  the  sight  of  His  all-seeing  eye. 


NATURE.     (i90I.) 

The  dimpled  lake  sleeps  in  the  cradling  arms 

Of  the  green   slopes  that   lie   about   it,  crowned 
With  glory  of  the  groves,  never  a  sound — 
Save  that  of  rippling  melody  which  charms- 
Comes  from  its  depths  as  if  its  waters  sang 
Of  blessed  calm  and  holy  peace  and  rest; 
The   sunshine    falling   now   upon    its   breast 
Writes  golden  notes  perhaps   like  those  which  rang 

Thro'  starry  spaces  at  Creation's  birth, 

When  the  glad  morning  stars  together  poured 
Their  glorious  symphony  while  they  adored 

The  great  Creator  of  the  heavens  and  Earth. 

O  these  glad   mornings !  Peace  lies  pillowed  here, 
And  Beauty  sleeps  upon  the  breast  of  Day; 
And  all  along  the  emerald-bordered  way 

Incense  is  poured  upon  the  atmosphere 

From  spaces  where  the  nunlike  lilies  lean, 
And  where  the  roses  bloom  so  very  fair, 
And  blossoms  drink  the  sunshine  of  the  air, 

And  the  tall  trees  a  silent  priesthood  seem, 

And  far  beyond  as  the  tall  mountains  rise; 

The  sky  like  one  bright  sapphire  shines  above. 
The  winds  breathe  softly,  while  love,  only  love, 

Seems  filling  earth  and  dropping  from  the  skies. 

BEING'S  MYSTERY.     (1901.) 

I  wonder  at  my  self,  at  my  own  being's  whole. 
At  my  soul's  essence,  its  beginning  and  its  thought. 
So  strange,  mysterious,  by  God's  own  wisdom  wrought. 
Free-will  its  heritage,  and  yet  in  God's  control, 
Freest  when  it  is  God-swayed  and  sceptered  by  th'  right, 
Noblest  when  humblest  it  doth  stand  within  His  sight. 

O   mystery!     what   am    I,  whither  do   I   tend? 
Shall  I  live  on  forever,  outlive  stars  and  Sun, 
And  when  they  cease  my  being's  life  be  just  begun? 
The  circling  centuries  pass  and  long  eons  end. 
Time  ceases,  yet   this  deathless  and  immortal   I 
Active   forever  lives.     O   what   is   destiny? 

Forever  onward,  upward,  higher,  higher  still. 
Godward,  unrestingly  our  spirit  life  may  tend, 
And  then,  O  soul  of  mine!     O  what  shall  be  the  end? 
To  live  with  God,  to  do  the  fullness  of  His  will, 
A  sinless,  "self-poised  personality"  to  be, 
A   deathless  soul,  reflection  of  Infinity. 

THE  LIGHT.     (1901.) 

With  each  new  day  the  glorious  light  is  born. 
Fresh  in  its  beauty,  never  growing  old. 
It  wraps  the  sky  and  all  the  mountain  heights. 
And  the  broad  vales  that  slumber  in  the  Sun, 
Touches  the  waters  with  its  wondrous  gleam, 
And  ev'ry  leaf  and  ev'ry  blade  of  grass 
Drink  in  its  glory  as  the  sunbeams  pass, 


107 


God  and  Nature. 


While  the  sweet  flowers  sip  life  from  its  soft  touch, 

And  Color  riots  in  its  fullness,  too. 

And  Fragrance  fills  her  chalices  with  such 

Delightsome  odors  the  soft  breeze's  wings 

Are  laden  with  them,  and  even  the  dew 

Yields  sweetness,  and  the  happy  bird  that  sings 

Seems  telling  of  the  light  that  is  so  fair, 

And  of  the  beauty  round  us  everywhere. 

Hut  oh!  there's  one  blest  thought  that  comes  to  me, 

That  cheers  my  heart  and  fills  my  soul  with  peace; 

"I  am  the  Light,"  saith  He  who  will  not  cease — 

The  blessed  Christ— and  in  this  light  we  may 

Rejoice  forever  through  an  endless  day, 

A  day  so  fair  that  e'en  the  glorious  rays 

Of  sunshine  illumining  our  earthly  days 

Seem  like  th'  night  beside  the  radiance  bright 

Of  Him,  our  Christ,  who  is  our  Life  and  Light. 


THE  DEATHLESSNESS  OF  BEING.     (1901.) 

A  great  life  cannot  die;  the  present  thrills 
With  all  the  glory  of  a  deathless  past; 
Good  deeds  are  stamped  with  immortality, 
And  they  eternally  do  blossom  and 
Bear  fruit.     In  all  the  vast  wide  universe 
Of  God  nothing  is  equal  to  the  man 
Who  bravely  dares  do  right,  however  much 
Beset  with  danger  the  way  of  right  may 
Be.    To  dare,  to  boldly  do,  is  god-like, 
When  Duty  leads  the  way.     No  jewel  like 
One's  conscience  when  the  heart  is  pure 
And  undefiled;  its  luster  naught  can  dim, 
Nor  ever  Shame  can  cast  its  shadow  o'er 
The  man  whose  upright  march  is  onward 
In  its  light.    No  coffin-lid  can  on  such 
Manhood  close,  for  it  will  live  forever 
In  the  deeds  it  wrought  and  noble  purposes 
Fulfilled,  the  priceless  heritage  of  all 
The  future,  the  changeless  keynote  of  all 
Glorious,  stainless  days  to  come. 
No  thought  of  good  is  ever  lost  to  man, 
And  no  kindly  deed  doth  ever  perish. 
Today  doth  write  itself  upon  the  page 
Of  coming  Time,  and  the  great  Tomorrows 
Of  our  being  are  but  the  perfect  blossoms 
Of  the  budding  Now. 


WITH  NATURE.     (1892.) 

I  love  to  steal  down  canon  paths, 
Between  the  emerald  hills, 

And  hear  the  voiceful  Sabbath  psalms 
The  chorus  of  the  rills. 

I  lay  my  head  upon  the  grass, 
Beneath  the  singing  pines, 

The  rhythm  of  their  swaying  boughs 
Is  like  to  sacred  chimes. 


And  grand  the  anthem  which  I  hear, 
Borne  down  from  heights  afar — 

These  mountain  heights  whose  symphonies 
Ring  out  from  star  to  star. 

Divine  the  songs  which  Nature  gives 
From  tongues  of  tree  and  flower, 

They  sing  of  loving  tenderness, 

While  mountains  sing  of  power. 


GOD'S  WORLD.     (1902.) 

We  know  'tis  His— God's  world— for  who  but  He 
Could  lift  the  mountains,  spread  the  mighty  Sea, 
Who  from  th'  ground  thrust  up  the  glorious  trees, 
Each  leaf  a  lute  for  wind-born  harmonies? 

Whose  hand  but  His  could  form  th'  wondrous  flowers, 
Water  the  Karth  with  gently-falling  showers, 
Unroll  the  sky,  with  all  its  countless  stars, 
And  let  the  Morning  through  Night's  hidden  bars? 

Whose  hand  but  His  could  make  the  grasses  spring, 
And  robe  the  Earth  in  emerald  covering, 
Color  the  rose  upon  its  slender  stem, 
And  gild  with  gold  the  lily's  diadem? 

Set  the  bright  clouds  within  the  sunset  sky, 
Teach  the  young  birds  through  pathless  air  to  fly, 
Place  crystal  waters  in  a  flowing  tide, 
Spread  golden  harvests  through  our  valleys  wide? 

Poise  fly  and  bee  upon  their  gauzy  wings, 
From  whence  the  color  of  the  rainbow  springs, 
Pour  out  the  sweets  of  fragrance  on  the  air, 
In  such  rich  fullness  all  the  Earth  may  share? 

Light  up  the  sky  with  glory  of  the  Sun, 

And  guide  its  way  until  the  Day  is  done, 

And  Night  drops  down  with  all  her  star-sown  worlds, 

And  with  her  hand  immensity  unfurls? 

And  who  but  God  made  Man,  clothed  him  with  thought 
And  high  intelligence  so  he  hath  wrought 
Deeds  marvelous,  and  Nature's  forces  trained 
To  do  his  bidding — the  wild  lightnings  tamed 

Until  they  are  his  messengers  of  speech, 
And  the  swift  steeds  that  bear  him  onward,  each 
Flash  a  silent  courser,  safe  and  strong, 
O'er  vale  and  mount,  conveying  him  along? 

He  measures  heaven — th'  unfathomed  deeps  of  air, 
Traces  the  orbits  of  the  planets  there, 
Predicts  the  flight,  ere  he  can  see  their  face, 
Of  mighty  comets  through  the  fields  of  space. 

God's  world !    O  it  is  wonderful  and  fair ! 

A  miracle  around  us  everywhere, 

From  falling  sunbeam  to  the  opening  flower, 

From  grassy  blades  to  mountain  tops  which  tower 


108 


Life  Through  Christ. 


To  the  far  skies;  from  smiling  vales  and  seas, 
From  rushing  winds  to  softly  whispering  breeze. 
God's  world !  the  rosy  evening  skies  proclaim 
It  His,  and  the  bright  golden  sunrise  flame 

Speaks,  too,  of  Him,  while  the  lang'rous  Noon 
Holds  breath  of  worship,  and  the  forest  gloom 
Speaks  with  its  leafy  tongues  from  ev'ry  tree 
Of  God,  the  Omnipresent  Deity. 

LIFE  THROUGH  CHRIST.     (1902.) 

How  long  ago  the  Christ  walked  this  fair  Earth; 

Beneath  the  stars  He  stood,  beneath  the  Sun, 

By  Galilee's  bright  waves  His  wandering  feet 

So  often  strayed;  its  waters  heard  His  voice 

And  hushed  their  murmurings.     At  His  command 

The  raging  tempest  stilled  and  breathed  like  a 

Young  child  in  slumber,  and  from  the  awful 

Silence  of  the  grave  the  dead  came  back,  clothed 

With  strong  new  life,  treading  once  more  the  old 

Familiar  paths,  smiling  again  into 

The  faces  of  their  loved  ones.    In  Him  Death 

Found  his  conqueror  and  life  took  on  a 

Vaster  meaning.    Redeeming  love  bridged  the  dark 

Unseen,  swung  wide  the  gates  of  immortality, 

And  filled  the  night  of  death  with  the  bright  beams 

Of  deathless  Hope  and  the  clear  sunlight  of 

Undying  Faith.     Down  the  long  centuries 

Ot  passing  years  rings  the  God-voice,  more  sweet 

Than  angel  symphonies,  filling  the  soul 

With  peace,  as  break  the  glad  words  upon  our 

List'ning  ears:     "I  am  the  Resurrection 

And  the  Life,  whomsoever  believeth 

In  me  shall  never  die."    O  man,  rejoice! 

Love  bids  thee  come  and  live.    Xo  death  is  there 

For  him  who,  through  the  love  of  Christ,  doth  wait 

For  blessed  immortality.     'Tis  love 

That  calls  us  home  unto  our  Father's  house, 

And  Death  the  angel  messenger  He  sends 

To  lead  us  onward  to  the  life  beyond, 

Where  are  the  many  mansions,  the  living 

Waters  and  the  pastures  green;  where  Christ  shall 

Lead  us,  and  perfect,  endless  being  shall 

Brighten  "where  God's  own  light,  unhindered  and 

Undarkened  by  a  sun,  shines  forth  alone 

In  glory."     Through  God's  great  universe  our 

Feet  may  wander,  and  the  glory  of  His 

Love  and  power  shall  gladden  us  forevermore. 


A  WINTER  LESSON.     (1902.) 

O  sun-filled  deeps!  ye  bend  above  a  world 
Where  Growth  her  glorious  banner  has  unfurled, 
Touched  by  the  rain,  she  flings  it  wide  and  free, 
From  grassy  blade  and  crest  of  leaf-crowned  tree. 

We  call  them  dead,  the  grasses  brown  and  sere; 
They  slumbered  on  the  hillsides  far  and  near, 
And  still  above  them  bent  the  cloudless  sky, 
While  floated  far  rich  Perfume's  argosy. 


Then  came  the  rain  in  full  and  gentle  showers. 
And  poured  its  blessing  on  this  world  of  ours; 
The  herald  of  Earth's  resurrection  morn, 
How  swiftly  at  its  coming  life  is  born. 

In  emerald  beauty  fields  are  quickly  clad, 
And  all  things  waken  to  a  new  life,  glad. 
In  the  swift  glory  of  the  sunshine  fair 
Death  slips  away  and  life  is  everywhere. 

So  shall  we  waken  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
If  we  are  Christ's,  and  then  forevermore 
Shall  life  unfold  and  being  blossom  new 
In  God's  own  light,  eternal  ages  through. 


IN  THE  OPEN.     (1902.) 

The  flowers  about  me  whisper 

Glad  music  to  my  ear, 
The  skies  bend  blue  above  me 

As  if  they,  too,  would  hear 

The  perfumed  song  so  holy, 

Breathed  through  the  golden  day, 

As  if  some  angel  singer 

Had  passed  along  the  way     . 

And  left  a  sweet  note  ringing 

Through  flowering  shrub  and  tree, 

A  blossomed  note  of  gladness, 
Of  worldless  ecstacy. 

"The  alphabet  of  angels" 

The  poet  calls  the  flowers, 
And  with  this  alphabet  the  Day 

Through  all  its  golden  hours 

Writes  hymns  of  wondrous  sweetness, 
And  Earth  fills  out  her  choir 

With  singing  birds  that  upward  rise 
As  if  they  did  aspire 

To  reach  th'  skies  and  flood  th'  air 

With  melody  so  sweet, 
While  bees  and  happy  insects  weave 

Song-carpets  for  our  feet. 

O  out  of  doors !   I  love  it, 

With  birds  and  flow'rs  and  trees, 
With  golden  sunlight  falling 

And  Wind's  soft  symphonies. 

The  palms  and  eucalypti  rise 

Still  upward  to  the  blue, 
The  lake  lies  sleeping  in  the  Sun, 

The  jeweled  grasses,  too. 

All  things  around  me  seem  to  say, 
Behold  God's  temple  here, 

We  see  His  footprints  in  the  flowers, 
We  feel  His  presence  near. 


109 


God  and  Nature. 


THE  BANNER  OF  GOD'S  LOVE.     (1902.) 

I  love  to  sit  within  the  lap  of  Day 
And  hear  sweet  music  whisper  in  the  air, 

The  golden  sunbeams  ever  seem  to  say 
Our  God  is  Light  and  He  is  everywhere. 

The  blooming  flowers  have  each  a  voice  for  me, 
An  alphabet  of  fragrance  for  my  ear; 

We  worship  Him,  the  glorious  Deity, 

With  offered  incense,  lo !  I  seem  to  hear. 

The  tall  trees  stand,  their  countless  leaves  aglow 
With  shining  light,  while  stirring  in  the  breeze, 

Like  perfect  lute-strings  breathing  soft  and  low, 
The  praiseful  notes  of  Nature's  harmonies. 

The  em'rald  grasses,  too,  have  voice  of  praise; 

Lowly  are  we,  and  yet  God's  tender  care 
Does  shelter  us;  each  slender  blade  does  rise, 

He  sendeth  Growth  to  bless  us  ev'rywhere. 

We  clothe  the  Earth,  and  lo !  His  smile  does  fall 
Upon  our  heads;  we're  shapen  by  His  Hand; 

Sunlight  -and  Rain,  His  servants,  watch  o'er  all 
Our  countless  hosts  which  in  the  fields  do  stand. 

The  mountains  rise  and  speak  to  me  of  power, 
Omnipotence  alone  could  lift  them  up 

Where  clouds  do  dream  and  the  descending  shower 
Nestles  amid  the  rocks  and  fills  the  cup 

Where  rivers   drink,  then  swiftly  onward  run 
To  seek  the  valley's  floor,  their  crystal  tide 

Smiling  along  the  vales  beneath  the  Sun, 

The  anthem  of  their  waters  sounding  wide. 

Through  the  far  spaces  their  Te  Deums  ring, 
The  great  Sea  hears  and  answers  to  their  notes, 

The  happy   flowers   respond   with   blossoming, 

And  birds  pour  music  from  their  feathered  throats. 

Oh,  God  is  here  within  this  sweet,  wide  world, 
We  feel  His  presence  but  see  not  His  face, 

But  yet  the  banner  of   His  love  unfurled, 
If  we  but  look,  we  see  in  ev'ry  place. 


OUR  HIDDEN  SERVANTS.     (1902.) 

Time  marches  onward  and  the  centuries  wake 

To  God's  great  purpose.     Man  a  conqueror  stands, 

Staying  the  Lightning's  force,  giving  it  speech. 

Across  the  seas  and  trackless  air  it  bears 

The  words  we  utter  in  our  chambers  far, 

And  the  whole  air  trembles  with  the  thoughts  of 

Men,  while  the  secrets  of  the  stars  are  ours. 

The  rocks,  that  through  the  long  years  have  been  dumb, 

Doth  Science  smite  and  give  to  us  their  secrets. 


The  lightnings  are  the  harnessed  steeds  that  bear 

Us  through  our  streets  and  over  mountain  heights, 

And  they  ere  long  will  push  our  ships,  swift-winged, 

Across  the  seas,  and  mayhap  will  help  us 

Fly  the  air,  sailing  o'er  continents  and 

Highest  mountain  crests;  th'  sun-filled  atmosphere, 

The  mighty  deep  we  traverse  soundlessly 

And  unafraid.     Most  wondrous  is  the  book 

That  Nature  opens  for  our  reading  in 

The  clear  light  of  this  New  Century,  with 

Science  as  its  interpreter.     Its  leaves 

Are  many  as  the  stars,  and  on  each  page 

Are  revelations  new  and  marvelous. 

The  whispering  leaf  hath  voice  for  us,  and 

The  falling  sunbeam  hath  a  new-found  tongue. 

With  strong  hand  man  hath  rent  the  veil  which  did 

Lie  on  Nature's  face,  and  he  is  climbing 

Toward  the  boundless  Vast,  with  step  unhindered, 

The  race  grows  larger-visioned.     Mystery 

Is  vanquished.     It  is  Law  rules  all  things,  and, 

Let  us  find  its  key,  the  heavens  shall 

Whisper  to  us  through  newly-opened  doors, 

Tell  us  what  is  hidden  in  their  deeps,  till 

We  may  look  behind  the  stars,  beneath  the 

Tossing  seas,  and  into  the  great  Earth's  heart, 

And  in  all  things  find  the  hidden  servants 

God  hath  made  ready  for  our  bidding. 


THE  ETERNAL  HILLS.     (1902.) 

I  sit  and  front  the  distant  mountains,  those 

Mighty  peaks  uplifted  to  the  skies,  their 

Sharp  fingers  thrust  into  the  blue,  clasping 

The  clouds  that  hover  o'er  their  crests,  and  their 

Bare,  rock-ribbed  heights  looking  like  twins  of  Time's 

Countless  centuries.     Still,  vast  and  solemn 

Do  they  seem  to  stand,  as  pulseless  as  death, 

And  yet  eternal  as  the  shining  stars. 

The  valleys  at  their  feet,  all  orchard-clad 

And  stretching  to  the  seas,  whose  light  waves  kiss 

The  silver  sands  and  whisper  of  the  far- 

Off  Orient,  where  the  race  was  cradled 

When  old  Time  was  young,  smile  upward  with  a 

Look  of  peace,  as  if  they  knew  these  mighty 

Sentinels  were  steadfast  and  watchful  as 

The  stars  and  sun.     But  drawing  near  them,  what 

Do  we  behold?     Great  canoned  deeps  which  are 

The  templed  aisles  of  Nature,  where  are  reared 

Her  rock-hewn  altars,  and  where  her  silver 

Streams   chant   their   eternal  oratorios 

Of  praise  and  power.     And  here  the  winds  worship 

Amid  the  tall  forest  trees,  waving  their  green  boughs, 

While  the  wild-flowers  pour  oblations  sweet 

Upon  the  air.     Countless  birds  form  a  glad 

Choir,  and  the  woods  ring  with  their  melodious 

Anthems.     The  grassy  blades  lift  timid  heads 

For  their  baptism  of  dew,  while  the  rocks 

Are  piled  far  overhead,  rising,  as  they 

Were  a  Jacob's  ladder,  to  the  skies.     The 

Sweet  interludes  of  song  are  h:::nmed  by  bees, 


110 


X at urc's  Empire. 


And  bright-winged  insect  throngs,  whose  gauzy  wings 

Like  living  rainbows  gleam  in  the  sunlit 

Air.     How  far  the  great  world  seems  amid  this 

Holy  mountain  atmosphere,  and  how  sweet 

To  hither  come,  where  the  full  soul  of  man 

And  Nature's  soul  may  hold  communion  high 

And  life  ennobling  in  God's  own  blessed 

Sanctuary  of  the  eternal  hills. 


NATURE'S  TEMPLE.     (1902.) 

I  love  the  temple  fair  which  Nature's  hand 

Hath  reared;  the  wooded  aisles  within  her  vast 

Forest  deeps,  where  her  glad  choirs  of  birds  join 

In  the  chant  of  living  waters,  and  the 

Symphony  of  myriad  leaves,  which  the 

Light  winds  stir  to  voiceful  harmony,  and 

Where  th'  dew  in  Night's  starlit  hours  pours  out  its 

Baptism.     I  watch  the  emerald  grasses 

Spring,  and   feel  God's  hand  behind  them  lifting 

From  the  brown  Earth  their  slender  blades,  and  shaping 

Them  to  beauty.     Like  incense  cups  the  flow'rs 

Pouring  upon  the  air  the  perfume  of 

Their  breath.     The  mountains  rise  like  altars  to 

The  bending  skies,  and  th'  white  clouds,  like  angel 

Wings,  rest  on  their  shoulders.     All  things  seem  to 

Cry,  "Holy,  holy,  holy,"  Lord  God  Almighty!" 

And  to  beckon  man  to  worship.     All  things 

Stand,  each  in  its  appointed  place.     God's  breath 

Is  in  the  wind,  and  His  benediction 

In  the  light,  for  God  is  Light.     The  wide  plains 

Look  up  to  Him,  wrapped  in  their  golden  robes 

Of  sunshine.     The  shining  waters  in  the 

Rivers  and  the  sea  are  garmented  with 

Light.     The  winds,  with  their  thousand  voiceful  tongues, 

Whisper  amid  the  leaves:     "Our  God  is  here." 

Thus  in  the  temple  He  has  made  does  God 

Draw  nearest  unto  my  spirit,  and  there 

Most  reverently  do  I  worship  Him. 


WITH  NATURE.     (1903.) 

What  shall  I  write,  what  shall  I  say, 
How  put  the  golden  heart  of  Day 
With  words  into  some  fitting  shrine? 
How  paint  the  sunlight  with  its  shine 
Of  golden  glory  on  the  leaves, 
As  down  it  falls  and  with  them  weaves 
A  roof  of  gold  above  my  head, 
While  all  the  Earth  is  garmented 
With  grass  and  many-colored  flowers, 
And  beauty  fills  this  world  of  ours? 

Oh,  words  are  weak  and  words  are  vain 
To  paint  the  wonders  of  the  plain, 
The  marvel  of  the  mounts  and  hills, 
The  radiance  that  the  sunlight  spills, 
The  shimmer  of  the  quivering  leaves 
Where  the  soft  breeze  forever  weaves 


| 
111 


Its  whispered  melodies,   as  though 
A  lute  were  touched  as  onward  go 
Soft-footed  winds  with  breath  of  musk, 
Perfuming  daylight  and  the  dusk. 

I  only  know  'tis  sweet  to  be 
In  God's  world,  full  of  harmony, 
Of  blessed  beauty,  shine  of  Sun, 
Of  starlight  when  the  Day  is  done, 
And  all  the  wide  and  boundless  Vast 
Is  on  our  wondering  vision  cast, 
To  live  a  God-wrought  entity, 
Undying  to  forever  be, 
Growing  throughout  eternity, 
Nearer  to  God's  infinity. 

PICTURES.     (1903.) 

Above  me  bends  a  fair  and  sun-filled  sky, 
A  world  of  glories  set  beneath  the  blue, 
With  color,  fragrance  woven  through  and  through. 

And  mountains  rising  upward  vast  and  high. 

The  bright-toned  landscape  gleams  with  gold  and  greei 
And  far  away  the  sparkle  of  the  Sea — 
We  cannot  catch  its  wondrous  melody — 

Like  shining  crystal  o'er  the  fields  is  seen. 

The  pulsing  winds  just  stir  the  many  leaves, 
The  sunshine  drops  mosaics  on  the  grass 
Where  the  tree-shadows  fall,  and  as  we  pass 

Amid  the  flow'rs  his  song  the  cricket  weaves. 

One  fair  white  cloud  lies  just  above  the  hill, 
A  crown  of  gold  is  on  the  tall  tree's  crest, 
We  see  it  mirrored  in  the  lake's  clear  breast 

Which  lies  as  dreaming,  rippleless  and  still. 

()  deeps  of  air!  vast  deeps  of  sunny  sky, 
What  lies  beyond  the  brightness  that  I  see, 
What  but  the  vastness  of  immensity, 

Where  worlds  on  worlds  sweep  on  eternally? 

There  is  no  space  where  nothingness  may  be. 
No  point  where  God's  creative  hand  is  stayed. 
On,  on,  still  on  forever,  yet  displayed 

Is  everywhere  the  might  of  Deity. 

COME  WALK  WITH  ME.     (1903.) 

Come  walk  with  me,  come  walk  abroad, 

And  see  the  glory  of  the  sky, 

The  beauty  that  around  does  lie, 
And  hear  the  Wind-Sprite  strike  a  chord 

Of  softest  music  'mid  the  trees. 

Their  thousand  leaves  are  breathing  low 

Above  my  head  where'er  I  go, 
The  sweetest  wood-born  symphonies. 

And  here  a  bird  spreads  wings  in  air, 

And  rises  upward  toward  the  Sun, 

And  there  a  spider's  web  is  hung, 
A  swaying  silver  bridge  so  fair. 


God  and  Nature. 


And  here  the  busy  ants  are  seen, 
What  lessons  may  we  learn  from  them! 
They  should  wear  Labor's  diadem. 

The  world  of  Industry  doth  teem 

AVith  no  more  tireless  hosts  than  they. 
And  ah!  just  see  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  fair  lake  that  lies  between 

The  dreaming  hills  where  shadows  play 

Beneath  the  swaying  peppers  there, 
And  see  the  eucalypti  climb 
Above  the  tallest  stalwart  pine, 

As  reaching  for  the  upper  air. 

And  far  the  lofty  mountains  rise, 

Soft,  lambent  light  around  them  glows, 
The  flood  of  sunlight  overflows 

Beneath  these  cloudless,  sun-filled  skies. 

The  faces  of  the  wild-flowers  meet 
My  eyes  along  the  paths  I  tread; 
How  sweet  the  perfume  which  they  shed, 

As  on  I  go  with  willing  feet. 

And  Silence  walks  the  hills  today, 
And  Beauty,  clad  in  Nature's  dress, 
Walks  with  me,  too,  my  life  to  bless— 

I  feel  the  richness  of  her  sway. 

And  here  a  rock  lifts  up  its  head, 
Magnificent  in  wealth  untold, 
The  countless  wealth  of  lichen's  gold 

O'er  its  broad  sides  so  thickly  spread. 

And  see  the  stores  of  silver  gleam, 
No  Croesus  ever  had  such  store 
As  that  which  ceaselessly  doth  pour 

Adown  the  waterfall's  full  stream. 

Oh,  could  we  weigh  the  gold  that's  hid 
In  every  sunbeam  that  we  see, 
Or  learn  the  wondrous  alchemy 

Of  change  beneath  the  harvest  lid, 

Transmuting  sunbeams  into  grain, 
Full  of  rich  ripeness  for  our  need — 
Enough  the  whole  great  world  to  feed — 

Giving  the  dead  seed  life  again, 

What  wisdom  would  be  ours;  but  ah! 

How  blindly  onward  do  we  go! 

Of  Nature's  miracles  we  know 
Scarce  more  than  of  the  farthest  star. 


WITH  NATURE  AND  GOD.     (1903.) 

Oh,  I've  been  close  to  Nature,  and  the  leaves 
Seemed  whisp'ring  to  me  as  I  sat  today 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  towering  trees, 

Where  the  light  breezes  wandered  in  their  play. 


The  many  grasses  quivered  at  their  touch, 

The  flowers  looked  upward  with  a  smile  of  light, 

The  birds  sang  o'er  my  head  with  voices  sweet, 
The  sunbeams  fell  like  golden  arrows  bright. 

I  felt  within  the  heart  of  Nature  there 
God's  presence  round  me  in  the  boundless  deep 

Of  glowing  skies,  and  everywhere 

That  the  winds  moved  with  swift,  unfettered  feet, 

Love  seemed  to  walk  with  them— God's  love  and  lipht, 
Alone  I  was  not,  He  was  with  me  there, 

And  kept  me  ever  in  His  loving  sight, 
And  held  me  ever  in  His  tender  care. 

GOD  IN  ALL  THINGS.     (1903.) 

O  God  in  all  things !     We  may  see 
His  glory  in  the  sky  and  tree, 
In  mountain  heights  that  round  us  rise 
As  they  were  kindred  with  the  skies; 
In  the  wide  vales  below  them  spread, 
In  the  vast  Ocean  which  is  fed 
By  countless  rivers  which  do  run 
From  every  clime  beneath  the  Sun 
To  fill  its  deeps.     All  things  we  see 
Are  voiceful  of  the  Deity. 

How  wondrous  is  each  tiny  blade 

Of  grass  which  God's  own  Hand  hath  made; 

How  perfect  is  each  swaying  leaf, 

How  marvelous  the  golden  sheaf 

Of  ripened  grain;  like  diamonds  rare 

The  shining  dewdrops  everywhere; 

And  then  the  bird-song  and  the  flowers, 

The  glorious  sunlighted  hours, 

And  afterward  the  starlit  Night 

Which  opes  immensity  to  sight. 

And  Man  !     The  image  of  his  maker  he, 

The  offspring  of  the  Deity! 

His  deathless  and  undying  I, 

Unfolding  through   Eternity. 

Oh,  to  be  Godlike,  to  be  true ! 

It  is  the  highest  he  can  do. 

And  through  this  way  his  pathway  lies 

Towards  life's  own  high  infinities. 

Child  of  Today,  yet  he  at  last 

Shall  know  the  fullness  of  th'  endless  Vast. 

THE  ALPHABET  OF  DEITY.     (1904.) 

The  open  air,  oh,  yes,  I  love  it  well ! 
It  is  my  home,  the  home  my  soul  loves  best, 
And  there  I  wander   free  'neath  sunlit   skies, 
Where  fragrance-laden  breezes  lightly  swell 
And  trees  are  lit  with  glory  of  the  Sun; 
Their  leaves  sway  lightly  in  the  shining  air, 
The  grasses  tremble  on  Earth's  bosom,  too, 
And  all  the  world  is  full  of  happy  song, 
And  buzz  of  bee  and  flies  all  rainbow-winged, 
And  joyous  life  of  every  creeping  thing. 


112 


God's  World. 


Like  rippling  silver  do  the  waters  stir, 
And  on  the  bosom  all  the  shadows  dream, 
Where  bend  the  trees  like  guardian  angels  near; 
And  the  preen  slopes  run  down  to  fold  them  in, 
While  silver-lipped  they  kiss  their  grass-shod  feet. 
On,  let  me  wander  'neath  the  sunlit  sky 
And  lift  my  eyes  unto  the  mountains  high, 
Those  wondrous  mounts  that  seem  to  touch  the  stars 
And  lay  their  crests  upon  the  moonbeams'  tide- 
That  seem  a-dream  above  this  lower  world. 
So  grand,  so  far,  do  they  not  sometimes  hear 
The  planets  whisper  as  they  circle  on 
Through  the  great  Vast,  so  measureless  outspread 
Within  the  deeps  of  the  wide,  viewless  air? 
Sometimes  I  wish  that  I  had  wings  to  fly, 
And  could  go  on  and  on,  forever  on, 
Past  the  great  orbits  of  uncounted  worlds 
Until  I  had  reached  the  boundaries  of  space. 
But  should  I  find  more  wondrous  things  afar 
Than  we  find  here  within  this  world  of  ours? 
Pause,  pause  and  think  how  wonderful  the  bloom 
Of  all  the  flowers,  how  grand  the  stately  trees, 
How  perfect  are  the  water-drops  that  flow, 
How  glorious  the  rainbow  hues  of  light, 
And  wonderful  the  little  grassy  blade; 
The  grain  of  sand  is  perfect  as  a  sphere, 
The  growing  vine,  soft-footed,  creeps  on  high, 
Soundless  in  motion,  clothed  in  thousand  leaves. 
Perfect  in  color,  smiling  in  the  light- 
Listening  the  wind's  whisper  as  unseen  it  treads 
The  pathless  air.     How  rainbow-like  the  wing 
Of  fly  and  bee !     Who  painted  them  and  taught 
Them  how  to  fly?     Who  woke  the  melody 
The  robin  makes,  or  framed  the  glorious 
Notes  of  meadow-lark  and  happy  mocking-bird? 
Who  gave  the  color  to  the  opening  rose, 
Painted  the  violet  in  wondrous  hues? 
Who  lights  the  clouds  with  glory  as  the  Sun 
Passes  from  sight  adown  his  western  way, 
And  spreads  all  wonders  that  we  daily  see? 
Oh,  out  of  doors,  within  the  open  air 
Let  me  but  wander  and  these  marvels  see, 
And  learn  to  live  as  God  would  have  me  here. 
These  voiceless  wonders  to  my  spirit  speak, 
And  in  them  all  an  alphabet  I  find, 
Which  God  has  written  and  which  I  would  read ; 
'Tis  one  of  love  and  power  and  tender  care, 
And  reading  it,  I  find  God  everywhere. 


GOD'S  WORLD.     (1904-) 

God's  hand  is  on  the  mounts,  'twas  His  own  power 
That  touched  their  lofty  crests  and  lifted  high 
Their  rock-hewn  foreheads  to  the  bending  sky. 
These  mounts  which  far  above  the  valley  tower 
Are  glorious  in  majesty.     O  how  grand! 
As  sweeping  the  high  stars  they  seem  to  lean 
Above  the  beauteous  Summer  vales  so  green 
With  the  fresh  grasses  covering  all  the  laud. 


The  winds  are  whisp'ring  'mid  the  leafy  trees, 
And  bird-song  floods  the  deeps  of  sunny  air; 
Bright  blossoms  pour  their  perfume  ev'ry where, 
The  world  is  full  of  sweetest  harmonies. 
NTo  chance  is  here,  but  God's  creative  Hand 
Formed  all  the  wonders  that  about  us  lie, 
Ann  He  unrolled  the  blue  and  boundless  sky, 
Set  firm  the  mountains  where  they  moveless  stand; 

And  spread  the  seas  and  all  the  shining  vales, 
Lifted  the  hills  as  footstools  for  His  feet, 
Scattered  the  flowers  which  our  glad  eyes  do  greet, 
And  lit  the  Sun  whose  glory  never  pales. 
The  countless  stars  which  light  the  evening  sky 
He  placed  within  the  endless  deeps  of  air, 
And  circling  their  vast  orbits  everywhere 
They  hear  the  voice  of  His  infinity. 

O  God  is  here,  the  winds  do  hear  His  voice, 

And  unseen  run  on  messages  of  love. 

The  flow'rs  do  hear  His  whisper  from  above, 

And  silently  to  growing  life  are  stirred. 

The  trees  His  loving  messages  do  bring; 

Each  leaf  hath  whisper  of  His  tender  care. 

In  the  hot  noontide  it  is  like  a  prayer 

For  balm  of  coolness  which  they  round  us  fling. 

The  many  birds  their  happy  voices  ring, 
And  glad  are  they  as  is  the  golden  light 
Of  Summer's  morn,  and  all  the  rivers  white 
With  crystal  waters  full  Te  Deums  sing 
Along  their  way  as  swiftly  to  the  Sea, 
Like  blessed  messengers  they  onward  go, 
Singing  the  harvest  psalms  so  full  and  low, 
With  richest,  untranslated  melody. 

God's  world !     And  we  may  find  Him  ev'rywhere 
If  we  but  look  and  Faith  doth  give  us  sight, 
And  for  our  staff  we  have  the  blessed  right. 
He  fills  the  Sea  and  the  highest  deeps  of  air, 
His  hand  is  on  the  stars  and  on  the  Sun, 
On  the  lowly  grasses  as  they  upward  spring, 
On  trees  and  flowers,  hills,  vales  and  ev'rything. 
As  near  today  as  when  the  world  begun. 

FOREVER  NIGH.     (1904.) 

The  little  bird  beneath   my  green   vine  leaves 
Does  twitter  softly,  then  anon  he  weaves 
A   full-voiced  melody.     The  breezes  hear, 
And  bear  it  onward   ringing  sweet   and  clear, 
Making  Day  gladder  and  Earth  more  divine. 
I   watch   the   fullness  of  the  May  sunshine, 
And   hear   the  merry  hum  of   flies  and   bees; 
I   see  the  golden   glory  of  the  trees, 
Crowned  with  the  sunlight  of  the  dreaming  Noon 
That   lies   asleep   above   the  blue   lagoon. 
How  light  the  ripples  on  its  placid  breast, 
Like  happy  smiles  they  on  its  surface  rest, 
As  if  'twere  glad  the  bright  days  are  so  fair, 
And  Summer  sweetness  filled  the  balmy  air. 
The   rose-bush   leans   above  the  dewy   grass, 


113 


God  and  Nature. 


The   humming-birds   above   it   lightly   pass, 

Dear  spirits  of  the  Dawn  they  seem  to  be, 

Telling   their    gladness   to   each   bush    and    tree. 

How  many  tones  in  Nature's  joyous  voice, 

How  many  ways  she  bids   us   all   rejoice! 

She   gladdens   us   with   fullness   of   delight 

By  the  rich  glory  of  the  Morning  bright ; 

With  golden  splendor  of  the  Xoon  she  stirs 

The  hearts  of  all  her  countless  worshipers. 

In  star-crowned  Evening  we  may  also  see 

The  high,   far  gateways  to  immensity; 

And  looking,  we  may  feel  how  small  are  we, 

The  deathless  atoms  of  eternity. 

And  yet  our  thoughts  the  highways  of  the  air 

From   star   to   star   may  traverse  everywhere. 

\\  e  weigh  the  mighty   worlds  that   fill  the   dec]), 

Where  suns  and  stars  in  their  vast  orbits  sweep, 

And  find  that  in  the  Earth  and  boundless  sky 

Our  Maker,  God,  is  still   forever  nigh. 

NATURE'S  CHILD.     (1904.) 
I   love  the   skies  that   bright   above  me  bend, 
I  love  the  Earth  so  fair,  so  sweet,  so  wide, 
With   mountain  heights  that   rise  on  ev'ry  side, 
And    gentle  breezes   that   light-footed   wend 
Across  the  vales  that  smile  beneath  the  sky, 
And  kiss  the  trees  with   fragrant  lips  unseen, 
As  lies  their  path  the  swaying  leaves  between. 

This   wild   wind-lover,   he   is   sometimes   shy; 
Sometimes  his  lips  just  touch  the  opening  flowers 
Which  lightly  tremble  at   his   fond  caress, 
But  answer  with  a  loving  tenderness, 
And  pour  their  gladness  out   through   all   the  hours 
In  rich  perfume  that  makes  the  Earth  more  sweet. 
I  love  the  trees,  for  they  do  seem  to  me 
Nature's  high  priests,  whose  blessed  ministry 
Makes  holier  the  pathways   for  our   feet. 

O  this  great  Earth !     'Tis  wonderfully  fair, 
A  thought  of  God  so  perfect  and  divine, 
From  mount  to  sea,  from  dusk  to  clear  sunshine. 
The  sunlit  hills  His  hand-wrought   footstools  are, 
The  mounts  that  are  uplifted  to  the  skies, 
Touched  with  the  glory  of  the  tipper  air, 
Seem  heaven-built   altars,  gloriously   fair, 
And  starlit  candles  all  about  them  rise. 

When  the  soft  Night  drops  down  and  hill  and  vale 
Rest  in  the  moonlight's  flooding  silver  glow, 
How  is  the  Vast  unrolled !  we  come  to  know 
Immensity,  and  feeble  speech  does  fail. 
This  sunlit  world,  this  moonlit  world  are  one, 
This  wondrous  world  of  hill  and   vale  and  sea. 
()  how  I  love  it!  ajid  I  fain  would  be 
Dear  Nature's  child  until  this  life  is  done! 

GOD.     (1900.) 

The  glorious  sunshine  falling  down  like  rain 
On  mighty   mountains   and   on   spreading  plain 
Is   golden-tongued   and   eloquent  to  me 
Of  Clod,  the  unforgetting  Deity. 


No  wind  that  blows,  no  blossom  that  unfolds, 
No  blade  of  grass,   no   ocean   wave  that   rolls, 
No  singing  bird,  or  butterfly,  or  bee, 
But   speaks   of   Him   who  fills   immensity. 

Center  of  all  things,  soul  of  being  He! 
Life  of  all  life,  the  perfect  Entity! 
Within   His  hand   He  holds  the  starry  worlds, 
And  into  space  the  flaming  comet  hurls. 

But  He  is  Love,  so  unafraid  am  I, 

Secure  with  Him,  I  leave  my  destiny 

With  Him;  I  walk  and  e'er  His  voice  I  hear; 

"Look  up,  my  child,  and  feel  thy  Father  near.' 


MORNING  OUT  OF  DOORS.     (1900.) 

1   sit  within  the  park;   the  placid  lake  lies  near, 
And  scarce  a  ripple  stirs  upon  its  waters  clear, 
Its  bosom  heaves  as  lightly  as  a  young  child's  breast 
When  it  is  softly  sleeping  in  its  cradled  nest. 

The  birds  skim  softly  through  the  shining  sea  of  air, 
The  happy  butterflies   are   flying   everywhere, 
The  fragrant  blossoms  smile  upon  me  as  I  sit 
Within  the  trees'  cool  shade  near  which  the  glad  flies  flit 

How    beautiful    the    spot!     The    trees    like    God's    high 

priests 

Seem   whispering  prayers,   nor   do  their   whispers   cease, 
They  speak  of  peace  and  love,  and  all  the  atmosphere 
Is  but  a  sounding  gallery  where  we  do  hear 

Ten   thousand  voices   in  their  harmony   divine, 
Outspeaking  to  us,  and  the  golden,  warm   sunshine 
Falls  like  a  benediction  from  the  hand  of  God 
On  tree  and  flower  and  on  the  emerald  sod. 

And   such  a  blessed   rain  of  bird-song   falleth   now 
From  the  leafy  chamber  of  yonder  swaying  bough. 
O  Father!  I  do  feel  Thy  watchful  presence  near, 
Thy  unseen  footsteps  tread  this  golden  atmosphere. 

NATURE'S  LESSONS.     (1900.) 

O   mounts   sublime!     I   look   to  thee   and   dream 

Of  the  sky  deeps  where  roam  the  winds  and  stars, 
Where  Night  the  vastness  of  her  realm  unbars, 

Where  Day  walks  with  the  Sun,  crowned  with  his  beams, 

Hiding  the  mighty  planets  as  they  sweep 
Their   vast   infinitude   of  orbits   round, 
Moving  forever  onward  without  sound, 

Yet  ever  their  unswerving  pathway  keep. 

O  mounts,  O  stars!  the  alphabet  of  power, 

God-written  are  ye  for  our  eyes  to  read ; 

God's   glory  ye  declare;  shall  we  not  heed 
The  wondrous  message  that  ye  give  as  dower 
Unto  man's  spirit,  telling  God  is  here? 

Jehovah's   footprints  are  your  lofty  heights, 

His  finger-points  are  in  Earth's  starry  nights, 
His  whisper  in   the  breeze-swept   atmosphere. 


114 


Song*  of  Xuturc. 


Breathing  around  us,  fragrance-filled  and  sweet, 
His  hand   dotli  hold   the  sun-filled   deep  above, 
With  alphabet  of  flowers  we  read   His  love. 

The  shining  sea's   a   pathway    for   His   feet. 

0  Earth!  thou  art  God's  temple  where  we  stand, 

The  trees  are  His  high  priests,  that  point  our  eyes, 
Like  His  own  fingers,  to  the  bending  skies, 
And  heaven  seems  nearer,  clinging  to  His  hand. 

SONGS  OF  NATURE. 

His   Glory. 
This  perfect  morn,  it  is  so  very  fair 

1  feel  God's  presence  in  it  everywhere; 

The  glory  of  His  love  is  in  each  swaying  leaf 
And   in  the  rain  of  brightness  that  doth  fall 
Like   Heaven's  own   mantle  over   all   things   fair 
From   the  blue,   bending  sky  and  boundless   air, 
To  where  the  palm  sways  softly  in  the  Sun, 
And  where  warm  tides  Of  brilliant  colors  run 
Through  roses  red  and  golden  poppies,  bright 
With  the  Sun's  laughter,  and  violets  blue 
Lift  up  meek  eyes,  as  if  they  really  knew 
God's  eye  was  on  them;  and  where  the  lilies  bow 
Their  milk-white   faces,  like   a  cloistered   nun, 
All  silent-lipped  'neath  this  effulgent  Sun. 

Oh,  when  breathes  soft  the  spirit  of  the  breeze, 
I  love  to  watch  the  sunshine  on  the  trees, 
As  sway  and  shine  they  in  this  golden  Sun; 
Some  silver  bright,  some   gold,  yet  every  one 


A   miracle  of  light.     Ah,   unseen   fingers  holy 

Must  touch  these  leaves  with  somewhat  of  heaven's  glory, 

God  must  be  here,  He  is  not  far  away; 

It  is  His  glory  on  the  face  of  Day. 


II. 


The  Morning  her  pure  azure  tint  has  spread 
Above  the  Earth  where  dewdrops  shine  like  stars, 
And  lilies  stand  with  lifted  cups  of  gold, 
And   the  sweet-rose  lifts  up  its  perfumed  head, 
And  whispers  to  the  Dawn  its  story  old 
Of  dewy  slumber  and  divinest  dreams, 
As  cradled  in  the  starlight  it  did  sleep, 
Wrapped  in  the  silver  of  the  Moon's  bright  beams. 

The  sacred  silences  of  the  Night  are  filled 
With  wordless  mysteries;  the  holy  starlight,  spilled 
Like  Summer  rain,  though  tongueless  to  our  ears. 
Is  the  harmonious  anthem  of  the  far-off  spheres, 
A   song  of  beauty  which  higher  souls  than  ours 
Hear,  as  'tis  poured  into  the  heart  of  flowers, 
Which  give  to  us  the  sweetness  of  its  breath — 
Its  glory,  shining  through  their  raised  leaves, 
A  symphony  in  color — the  garnered  sheaves 
Of  songs  whose  silentness  we  note, 
While  Nature  hears,  through  all  her  ways  afloat. 
Their   rich,  sweet  melodv  attuned   unto  her  ears. 


us 


aix6 


sweeflr,   O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  cleat!" 


WEDDING  BELLS. 

(On  the  Wedding  Anniversary  of  a  Santa  Barbara  couple, 
Oct.  i,  1883.) 

I. 

How  swiftly  slip  the  years  like  pearls 

Adown  Time's  silver  string, 

(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 
How  lean  the  roses  round  our  length'ning  days, 
And  pure  white  lilies  their  sweet  incense  bring — 
The  lilies  of  our  hopes  which  are  so  fair, 
The  roses  of  our  love  which  are  so  dear — 
(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 

II. 

The  glad  Spring  of  our  wedded  life 

Hath  passed  to  Summer's  dawn — 
(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 
The  early  Summer  with  its  June's  clear  morn, 
Its   golden   fullness,   its   "enchanted   dusk," 
Where  souls  brush  off  the  dust  of  day, 
And  hearts  grow  warmer  growing  near — 
(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 

III. 

The  music  of  those  bells  floats  on 

Adown  the  crystal  years; 

(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 
For  days  grow  brighter  as  the  Sun  climbs  higher; 
Our  heart-throbs   now  keep  time  and  beat  together, 
Our  hopes  are  twin-born,  and  our  sometime  fears 
Trust  takes  and  loses  them,  nor  leaves  one  near — 
(Chime  sweetly,  O  ye  wedding  bells,  chime  clear!) 

II.     (1889.) 

Time  stands  today  and  counts  his   rosary, 
The  beads  of  years  he  holds  upon  his  string, 
And  in  each  pause  we  hear  the  glad  bells  ring. 
O  wedding  bells!  so  mellow,  soft  and  clear, 
Ring  out  your  music  for  each  wedded  year. 

Past  is  the  May-time  of  your  wedded  life, 
And  breaks  the  noon  of  Summer  on  your  way, 
But  still  the  lilies  of  your  hopes  are  fair 
And  sweet  the  roses  of  your  love  do  bloom. 
And  Trust  pours  out  her  treasures  of  perfume. 
O  wedding  bells !  so  mellow,  soft  and  clear, 
With   silver  chimes   ring  in   this   noontide  year. 

O  Future!  as  your  hidden  skies  unfold, 

Let  Joy's  white  flowers  still  blossom  in  their  sun; 

Let  all  Life's  after-summer  come 

With   June-like   gladness,    and   its   evening-time 

Be  sweet  as  that  when  first  the  chime 

Of  wedding  bells  in  their  young  May 

Sent  echoes  down  Life's  flowery  way. 

O  wedding  bells !  so  mellow,  soft  and  clear, 

More  joyous  ring  with  every  passing  year. 


FROM  MIDNIGHT  TO  MORNING.     (1876.) 

I  was  up  in  the  early  glory 

Of  the  golden-footed  Dawn, 
When  the  Sun  flashed  out  his  brightness 

In  the  face  of  the  coming  Morn, 
And  the  long  and  gleaming  lashes 

In  a  fringe  of  sunbeams  lay 
As  they  fell   from  the  drooping  eyelids 

Of  the  lovely  new-born  Day. 
And  I  said,  O  Earth!  as  ever 
Thy  beauty  is  born  anew, 
As  out  of  the  darkness  the  daylight, 
As  Night  brings  the  glory  of  starlight, 
So  out  from  the  midnight  of  sorrow 
Is  born  Joy's  brightest  Tomorrow. 


THIS  FAIR,  BRIGHT  DAY.     (1878.) 

The  roses  pour  oblations   full  and  sweet— 

I   feel  their  beauty  with  my  bated  breath — 

The  jeweled  grasses  tremble  underneath, 

And  the  white  lily  with  its  golden  wand 

Distills  such  incense  that  the  light-winged  breeze, 

With  its  soft  touch  upon  my  brow  and  hand, 

Seems  but  the  soul  of  Perfume;  in  the  trees 

Birds  fold  their  wings,  their  glad  throats  fdled  with  son 

And  seems  to  take  the  world  into  itself! 

Making  a  pathway  through  the  golden  Morn. 

O  I  am  glad!     My  very  heart  is  thrilled 
And  bees  with  golden  crests  buzz  swift  along, 
Sight  is  the  Soul's  touch,  and  its  touch  has  filled 
My  inner  sense;  through  eyes  my  soul  has  laid 
Its  hand  on  Nature's  face,  and  this  bright  day, 
Golden  in  beauty,  with  soft  dimples  made 
On  the  wide  blue  by  pearly  clouds,  which  stray 
Like  snowflakes  drifting  through  the  shining  air, 
Is  gathered  to  my  inner  life,  and  there 
Fills  all  my  soul  like  an  unspoken  prayer. 


TWO.     (1881.) 

I   see  a  river  wide  and  shining   fair, 

Set  with  green  isles,  where  rarest  blossoms  spring, 
And  fill  with  fragrance  all  the  morning  air, 

And  singing-birds  are  ever  on  the  wing. 

Above  it  bend  such  bright  and  glowing  skies, 
No  clouds  above  their  sunrise-glory  shed 

Their  shadows  on  the  stream;  no  eddies  rise 
In  the  grand   river  by  the  streamlets   fed. 

All  things  are  lovely,  and  the  bells  ring  out 
Their  melody  of  music  by  the  tide, 

And   boats   are   drifting  here   and   there  about- 
Some  drifting  singly,  some  float  side  by  side. 


116 


Life  — Speak  to  Thy  Soul. 


O   fair  bright  river!  this  life's  loveliest  ones 

Float  on  thy  sunny  breast,  while  Hope  sings  sweet. 

And  Trust  has  built  her  palace  on  thy  wave, 

And  Faith's  white  lilies  bend  their  heads  to  meet 

Thy  sweet  cool  tides,  that  in  their  ebb  and  flow 
Baptize  them  with  the  silver  of  their  waves, 

And  kiss  them  with  soft  lips  before  they  go 
.Where  their  pure  waters  all  the  green  shore  laves. 

Adown  the  flowery  bank  come,  hand  in  hand, 
Two  unto  whom  life  still  is  young  and  fair; 

Love  watches  them  from  this  far  Sunset  Land, 
And  though  divided,  we  are  with  them  there. 

For  now,  on  Love's  bright  river,  lo!  they  launch  their  boat, 
Its  white  sail  spotless  in  the  glowing  light; 

And  down  the  silver-rippled  stream  they  float, 
To  the  wide  Ocean,  just  within  our  sight. 

There  may  be  clouds  to  hide  the  golden  Sun, 

There  may  be  storms   that  shall  beset  their  way, 

There  may  be  troubled  seas  to  be  outrun, 

And   deep,  dark  waters  where  the  breakers  play 

On  some  dread  Scylla  or  Charybdis'  side; 

But  safe  their  boat  shall  float  along  if  they 
Have  Love,  the  mariner,  their  helm  beside, 

And  life  be  with  them  one  long  blessed  day, 

Spent  in  fair  isles,  with  tropic  splendor  crowned, 
Filled  with  the  heart's  best  fruits  of  Peace  and  Trust, 

Wherever  Hope's  sweet  singing-birds  abound, 
And  fill  with  song  the  Eve's  "enchanted  dusk." 


LIFE. 

O  Life!     I  sometimes  wonder  what  'tis  worth! 

It  would  be  nothing  if  this  time-held  Earth 

Were  all  of  it,  though  days  are  very  fair, 

With  shining  skies  and  sun,  and  everywhere 

In  Night's  vast  spaces  countless  stars  are  hung, 

And  the  great-bosomed  hills  are  glorified 

With  bud  and  blossom,  while  in  the  far  wide 

Vales,  tremulous  and  breeze-kissed,  grassy  blades 

Thrill  with  Day's  glory  till  the  sunset  fades, 

And  then  soft  breezes  stir  the  silent  air 

As  if  the  Earth  did  worship,  and  a  prayer 

Breathed  to  its  Maker.     Oh,  but  this  fair  Earth 

Is  very  fair,  and  it  is  wholly  worth 

My  wondering  reverence,  because  I  know 

God   fashioned   it,  and  the  sweet   winds  that   blow — 

Laden  with  perfume  and  the  balm  of  flowers — 

His  hand  hath  loosed;  they  walk  this  world  of  ours 

Like  God's  angels,  brushing  at  once  away 

That  which  would  harm  us,  foul  disease  and  death, 

Which  flee  before  their  purifying  breath. 

And,  ah !  what  miracles  about  us  lie ! 

Just  think  of  it!     The  wisest  man  might  try 

To  make  a  simple  leaf  or  blade  of  grass, 

But  into  them  no  power  of  his  could  pass 

That  which  would  give  them  life,  and  make  them  grow 


And  so,  O  waiting  soul  of  mine!  I   know 

Gcd's  touch  is  on  them,  and  His  daily  care 

Is  like  the  sunlight,  round  them  everywhere. 

And  the  sweet  birds,  the  butterflies  and  bees, 

The  mountained  glory  and  the  might  of  seas, 

The  gurgling  laughter  of  the  running  rill 

Speak  to  my  soul   forever,  and   I   still 

Thrill  to  the  infinite.     And  I  have  found 

There's  beauty  everywhere  in  sight  and  sound. 

And  more  than  this,  far  more,  my  full  heart  feels 

The  tenderness  of  Love,  and  Love's  sweet  worth, 

The  best  of  all  things  that  do  gladden  earth. 

Then  Hope  and  Faith,  O  blessed  things  are  they! 

Telling  of  life  beyond  this  little  day, 

A  life  where  life  bursts  into  fullest  flower, 

And  Man  grows  godlike  through  God's  love  and  power. 

'Tis  this,  'tis  this  that  gives  to  life  its  worth, 

And   glorifies  the  humblest  life  of  earth. 

II. 

O  Life  is  grand!     It  is  so  great  to  be 

With  soul  that  unto  highest  heaven  aspires, 

With  being  stretching  through  infinity, 

Unfolding  with  new  hopes  and  high  desires. 

Time  but  a  little  moment  is  of  life, 

A  shadowed  hour  before  its  radiant  morn, 

The  day  of  storm  and  of  the  battle's  strife, 
Ere  the  full  triumph  of  the  glorious  dawn. 

To  be  forever  and  to  never  cease; 

And  as  earth  passes,  lo!  the  shadows  flee, 
Time's  curtain  lifts  and  God's  own  day  of  peace 

Breaks  in  the  light  of  His  eternity.  * 

Xo  more  the  shadow  and  no  more  the  doubt, 
The  clogs  of  flesh  drop  off,  the  spirit  wakes 

To  boundlessness  of  life,   as  passing  out 

From  time  and  earth  its  heavenward  flight  it  takes. 

SPEAK  TO  THY  SOUL.     (1898.) 

The  days  come  to  me  like  pearls  of  God's  own 

Setting,  each   rimmed  round  by  Time's   glad,  golden 

Hours.     How  fair  they  are,  how  full  of  beauty! 

Each  has  its  life,  each  throbs  with  new  desire, 

Pulses   with   thoughts   that    upward   do   aspire 

To  nobler  life,  to  broader  being's  goal. 

Each  but  a  part  of  one  great  wondrous  whole — 

The  whole  of  life!     'Tis  mystery  we  see! 

Oh,  what  its  meaning,  what  the  Yet-to-be 

Of  Earth's  full  story  of  the  life  ot  men? 

We  live  not  to  ourselves,  and  yet  again 

Our  lives  we  live  alone,   for  there  fire  deeps 

In  each  mind-world  where  silence  ever  keeps 

Its  soundless  rule,  nor  word,  nor  voice  of  speech, 

Naught  but  God's  eye  this  realm  can  ever  reach. 

There  is  a  stratum  of  subconscious  self 

That's  strange  to  us  as  some  star-world  afar, 

Swinging  in  space,  whose  distance  e'er  will  bar 

Our  entrance.     I   know  not   what's  within  me, 


ir 


Life  and  Duty,  Hope  and  Joy. 


What   thoughts   may    leap   to   consciousness   and   live 

In  strength  of  purpose  and  intensity 

Of  deeds— deeds  that  unto  the  world  shall  give 

To   what   else   were   dark   a   shining   glory, 

Bright  with  the  luster  of  their  simple  story. 

List!     O  list!     Does   not   some  echo  near  ye 

Of  the  grand  \Vhat-may-be  if  we  but  see 

Duty  at  action's  helm,  guiding  for  aye 

The  race  of  men?     Oh,  what  high  destiny 

Swims  in  the  Vast  which  all  about  us  lies! 

Waiting  to  crown  us  with  its  rich  emprise, 

Live  we  but   rightly,  seeking  e'er  to  be 

As  great  as  God  would  have  us,  momently 

Using  our  soul-wings,  which  would  ever  bear 

Us  up,  past  all  those  feeble  pauses  where 

The  soul  falters,  up  where  high  endeavor  gives 

Strength  unto  being,  and  the  highest  lives— 

The  highest  in  us  that  is  godlike,  pure 

As  angel  purpose,  and  that  shall  endure 

While  being  lasts. 

Struggling  soul  unfold, 

Like  some  white  blossom  with  its  heart  of  gold 
Unto   the   sunlight   of   God's   love.      His   purpose   share; 
Be  thou  the  blessed  messenger  to  bear 
Truth  to  the  world  by  living  truth  each  day, 
For  truth  that's  lived  is  stronger  far  alway 
Than  that  framed  simply  in  a  fruitless  word. 
A  theory  unlived  has  never  stirred 
A  life  to  action.     Soul,  be  up  and  do 
That  which  makes  life,  the  right,  the  good,  the  true. 

LIFE  IS  DIVINE.     (1899.) 

Time  treads  the  pathway  of  the  ages  long, 
The  years  slip  by  him  as  on  beaded  lines. 
Beneath  his  dial  sound  the  echoing  chimes 

Of  the  great  centuries  of  Might  and  Wrong. 

Earth  swings  beneath  the  Sun  and  circles  round 
Her  unseen  orbit  through  the  fields  of  space; 
Men  come  and  go,  and  others  take  their  place, 

And  what  of  worth  in  all  this  life  is  found? 


War  to  our  lips  doth  hold  his  blood-red  cup, 
We  drink  and  shudder  at  its  awful  woe, 
And   Sorrow  lingers  e'en  where  blossoms   grow, 

And  hungry  Want  from  all  our  paths  looks  up. 

Friends  smile  on  us,  and  then  they  pass   from  sight, 
Death  opes  the  door  through    which    their    feet    must 

tread, 
And  foul  Decay  upon  their  flesh  is  fed, 

And  Time  nowhere  doth  show  us  any  light. 

But  O  my  soul !  look  up !  look  up  and  see 

That  which  makes  day  amid  the  darkest  night; 
That  which  makes  Sorrow  vanish  from  our  sight, 

And  lifts  the  veil  from  all  life's  mystery. 

God  is  o'erhead.     O  hear  His  blessed  voice! 

Lo!  I  am  with  thee  ever,  child  of  mine; 

Out  of  this  night  Joy's  living  light  shall  shine; 
Be   glad  in  Me,  and  let  thy  soul   rejoice. 

Life's  tent  is  spread  but  for  a  passing  day, 
But  lo !  my  angels  round  about  it  wait, 
And  Love  keeps  guard,  and  nevermore  blind  Fate 

Dares  haunt  .your  footsteps  as  ye  pass  life's  way. 

My  angels  sometimes  come  in  Sorrow's  guise, 
But  they. are  angels  still,  and  ye  shall  see 
Life  blossom  into  joy  if  unto  Me 

Ye  look  in  faith,  and  all  your  darkened  skies 

Shine  like  the  Morning,  for  this  Earth  is  fair 
When  'tis  faith-lighted,  and  Doubt's  phantom  fears 
Pass  like  pale  ghosts   when   Hope  itself  appears, 

Touching  all   things   with  brightness   everywhere. 

O  Earth !     O  Man !     God  loves  ye  well,  for  He 
Feeds  you  with  beauty,  and  makes  man  aspire 
With  thought   enkindled   unto   something  higher; 

Even  to  Heaven's  own  glory  that  shall  be 

Man's  full  fruition.     Be  glad,  O  Man !  and  see 
Life  is  divine,  and  we  may  make  it  great 
When  we  stand  godlike,  with  our  souls  elate 

With  purpose  worthy  of  Eternity. 


118 


an  an6  Woman, 


"Honor's  crown,    O  woman,  wails  for  you." 


THE  W.  C.  T.  U. 

(On  the  laying  of  a  corner-stone.     1888.) 

God  built  the  world  for  Time's  long  ages,  for 
The  centuries  of  years  which  Change  has   ruled 
And  giant  Progress  nurtured.     Not  alone 
For  man  in  Eden,  or  for  the  hoary 
Patriarchs  whose  feet  verged  on  the  threshold 
Of  a  thousand  years,  but  for  us  as  well 
Who  walk  the  pathway  of  the  present,  and   for 
Those  who  in  Time's  twilight  hour  shall  come  and 
See  Time's  ending,  were  these  blue  skies  spread  and 
The  Earth  set  fast  upon  its  firm  foundations. 
Xo  Today  bounds  God's  great  purposes;  no 
Measure  of  Earth's  untold  eons  can  hedge 
Them  in  or  compass  their  infinity. 

And  like  Him  who  first  reared  this  grand  temple, 
And  spread  above  its  mountain  walls  the  dome 
Of  its  blue  sky,  and  up  reared  the  columned 
Trees,  and,  in  the  beginning,  upon  their 
Granite  base  set  all  Earth's  rock  foundations, 
Humbly  and  reverently,  with  our  eyes 
L'pon  the  pregnant   future,  upon  the 
Needs  of  coming  generations,  on  those 
Among  their  children  who  shall  be  drink-scourged 
And  demon-haunted,  we  lay,  not  for  to- 
Day  alone,  but  for  the  long  Tomorrows 
Of  Old  Time,  this  corner-stone,  above  which 
We  hope  to  rear  the  roof  and  architrave 
O'er  spacious  halls  forever  consecrate 
To  human  needs;  to  temper  here  the  shields 
Against  temptation;   to  help   unto  their 
Feet  those  who  have  fallen. 

This  corner-stone 

Means  more  than  simple  building  with  brick  and 
Mortar.     Each  hammer-stroke,  each  steady 
Trowel-sweep  smites  at  gigantic  Wrong,  and 
Rings  with  pity  for  the  tempted;  each  chisel's 
Touch  carves  out  fresh  hopes  for  them,  as  beautiful 
As  is  the  carven  statue  which  takes  shape 
Beneath  the  sculptor's  hand,  and  no  less  pure 
Than  is  his  stainless  marble. 

These  walls  will 

Also  be  emblems  of  courage  and  of 
Patience — of  the  noble  deeds  of  the  large- 
Hearted  woman-workers  by  whom,  as  borne 
Down  along  God's  ways  into  their  ears,  the 
Cry  for  soul-help  was  heard  and  heeded. 
As  the  dew  falls  down  upon  the  Night,  so 
Fell  on  them  the  grace  of  earnest  purpose, 
And  in  the  warm  Summer  of  their  hearts  is 
Ripening  now  the  sure  harvest  of  tireless 
Endeavor.     The  corner-stone  is  laid.     The 
Walls  shall  rise,  each  brick  a  pledge  of  safety 


To  the  poor  captive  souls  bound  by  the  strong 

Cords  of  an  insatiate  appetite. 

L'pon  the  awful  nightmare  of  the  drunkard's 

Sleep,  swept  by  the  bitter  winds  of  Misery, 

From  out  these  doors  the  words  of  pity  shall 

Drop  down  like  rain  into  seared  hearts  which  have 

Burned  dry  witli  sinning.     Here  shall  be  buili  strong 

Dykes  of  moral  purpose,  which  shall  help  to 

Stay  the  fiery  tide  that  burns  out  love 

And  common  decency,  and  honest  pride, 

And  noble  manhood.     Lay  (inn  the  corner-stone! 

I  THE  DRUNKARD. 

(A  woman's  prayer.     1890.) 

I  heard  a  woman  praying  with  white  face, 

While  lifting  broken-hearted  voice  on  high; 

Above  her  bent  the  immeasurable  sky 

Filled  full  of  sunshine,  as  Sorrow  had  no  place 

In  all  its  deeps.     But  still  I  know  the  ear 

Of  the  All-Merciful  was  bent   to  hear; 

And  sometime  he  will  answer,  and  then  men 

Will  feel  how  awful  sin  is — sin  of  Greed — when 

It  doth  crush  the  heart  and  sell  man's  soul 

For  filthy  lucre.     List  to  the  story  that  her  prayer  doth  tell ; 

Heed  it,  ye  merciless,  O  heed  it  well! 

As  kneeling  with  wan  face  and  tearful  eyes, 

And  lifted  hands  her  broken  spirit  cries: 

"My  husband!  my  beloved!     O  God!  give  car, 

Bend  Thou  these  heavens  and  let  me   feel  Thee  near, 

While  for  my  dearer  self  I  pray  to  Thee; 

Stir  Thou  the  hearts  of  men  till  they  shall  see 

The  cruel  wrong,  the  deadly  infamy 

Which  opens  wide  the  palace  gates  of  sin, 

Where  wine  is  poured  for  men  to  enter  in. 

O  Father,  hear!  the  tempters  spread  their  net 

Through  all  the  sacred  Sabbath  hours,  and  yet 

We  have  no  human  law  to  succor  men 

Lured  by  their  selfish  snares;  and  when 

We  lift  a  finger  to  restrain,  oh,  then 

They  cry  aloud  and  shriek  that  we 

Despoil  them  of  their  rightful  liberty. 

Is  there  no  law  of  human  right  to  stay 

This  traffic  in  poor  human  souls?     No  way 

To  stop  this  robbery  of  hopes  and  this 

Wreck  of  homes?     Hath   wrong  no  Nemesis? 

How  long,  O  Heaven!  how  long  may  men 

Defy  Thee  for  the  sake  of  gold?    When 

Shall  their  cry  be  hushed,  their  shameless  cry 

For  liberty  to  rend  our  hearts;  to  try 

Our  souls;  to  murder  tenderness, 

To  use  the  day  which  Thou  didst  bless 

As  other  days  to  drag  man's  manhood  down 

To  the  low  levels  where  the  crown 

Is  set  on  beastly  appetite, 


Man  and  Woman. 


And  man  is  made  its  fettered  slave? 

O  Heavenly  Father !  let  me  crave 

Thy  blessing  and  Thy  help;  teach  me,  I  pray 

Full  reverence  for  Thy  Holy  Sabbath  day,  , 

For  other's  rights;  for  manhood's  needs;  may  we 

Regard  our  universal  brotherhood,  and  see 

Our  duty  clearly." 

She  paused;  a  step  she  heard, 
A  tottering  step,  which  all  her  pulses  stirred; 
Besotted,  drunk,  into  that  Sabbath  calm, 
The  little  children  huddling  in  alarm, 
Her  husband  came.     Lower  she  knelt, 
More  earnestly  with  breaking  heart  she  prayed, 
And  think  you  God  heard  not?     That  He 
Will  answer  not?     That  we  shall  see 
Wrong  ever  unrebuked?     That  ne'er  will  melt 
With  tender  pity  for  such  need  and  woe 
Our  Father's  heart?     That  always  so 
Evil  shall   triumph?     Nay,   I   tell  ye   nay! 


WOMAN. 

Long  were  the  eons  of  Old  Time  in  which 

God  the  Creator  wrought,  fashioning  from 

Chaos  this  wide,  sweet  Earth.     Fire  and  ice— the 

Mighty  glaciers,  the  ploughshares  of  His 

Power,  and  earthquakes  from  the  vast  womb  of 

Seething  deeps,  lifting  unto  the  shoulders 

Of  the  skies  Earth's  giant  mountains, 

Were  tools  within  His  forming  hand  to  shape 

To  beauty  infinite  this  world  of  ours. 

Ages  were  His  children— the  great  Today 

Of  infinite  purpose,  to  whom  a  thousand 

Years  are  but  as  yesterday.     Slowly  were 

Earth's   foundations  laid,  and  her  green  valleys 

And  everlasting  hills  made  glorious. 

But  when  the  Earth  was  finished  and  complete, 

Its  bosom  jeweled  with  blossoms  odorous 

And  fair,  and  its  form  girdled  with  shining 

Streams,  and  the  white  sands  of  its  shores  were  kissed 

By  silver  seas,  and  fragrance-breathing  winds 

Blew  soft  beneath  the  ever-shining  stars, 

And  golden  in  the  deeps  of  Day  shone  the 

Bright  Sun,  warming  to  ripeness  Earth's  many 

Fruits,  God  wrought  more  gloriously,  and  set 

His  seal  upon  created  things.     Through  the 

Vast  silences  broke  the  untold  symphony 

Of  tli'  Creator's  voice.     Earth  hushed  itself 

To  listen,  and  the  stars  stood  still;  shining 

Suns  paused  reverently  a  moment  in 

Their  courses,  while  God  spake,  "Let  us  make  man 

In  our  own  image!"     O  that  first  morn  in 

Eden!    Link  by  link  had  the  long  chain  of 

Created  things  been  wrought,  each  link  showing 

Something  higher  and  more  perfect  until 

The  end  was  reached,  and  Man,  the  image  of 


The  Creator,  in  Eden  sinless  stood. 

But  no  chattering,  savage  thing  was  he, 

Evolved  from  ape  or  anything  beneath ; 

But  fresh-formed  from  the  creative  hand  of 

The  All-Infinite  he  sprang,  wondrously 

Clothed  upon  with  mind  that  had  been  taught 

By  Deity.     Intelligence  shone  from 

His  godlike  face,  and  from  his  lips  breathed  the 

Melody  of  informed  speech.     Like  a  god 

He  stood  splendid  in  beauty,  responsive 

To  Earth's  thousand  voices,  waiting  God's  will. 

Yet  still  Creation's  work  was  not  complete, 

And  once  again  through  the  vast  realms  of 

Space,  sweeter  than  melody  of  harp  and 

Diviner  than  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

Sounded  afar  the  God-voice,  saying  clear, 

"  It  is  not  good  for  Man  to  be  alone, 

Let  us  make  a  helpmeet  for  him!"     Oh,  then 

Did   Eden  smile,   and   all   its  blossoming   sweets 

At  once  did  lend  themselves  unto  added 

Fragrance  while  Adam  slept,  then  ope'd  his  eyes 

To  see  a  wondrous  vision.     No  flower 

Within  the  garden  half  as  fair  as  she, 

Standing  before  him  with  her  down-dropped  lids, 

Half- veiling  eyes  glorious  with  their  full 

Soul-light,  and  blue  as  the  bending  heavens. 

She  was  tall,  but  all  her  beauteous  form 

Was  veiled  in  the  shining  gold  of  her  bright 

Tresses.     Like  the  pink  tints  of  the  rose  her 

Smoothly-rounded  cheeks,  her  lips  so  curved  and 

Lovely,  words  cannot  paint  their  beauty,  no 

More  than  could  they  the  shining  of  the  fair 

Full  moon.     Beautiful,  the  highest  glory 

Of  God's  creative  work,  stood  she,  crowned 

As  the  Mother  of  the  Race,  the  helpmeet 

Of  her  husband.     Her  soul's  environment 

Was  purity;  her  heart  was  tenderness, 

And  yet  her  thoughts  reached  out  for  aye,  longing 

For  greater  knowledge.     No  plaything  was  she, 

But  companion,  bosoming  the  great  world's 

Destiny,  her  hand  shaping  its  future; 

Her  deeds  moulding  the  race,  the  Woman  type 

Of  all  the  ages.     And  so  today  the 

World  waits  on  her.     But  first,  highest  and  most 

Sacred,  tender  as  the  softened  light   of 

Starry  eyes  is  Woman's  world  of  Home,  for 

Here  she  shapes  the  race,  moulds  statesmen   for  the 

Needs  of  nations.     Here  she  does  find  the  high 

Noon  of  her  power,  and  breathes  the  lingering 

Air  of  Paradise.     Yet  today  wide  swing 

The  golden  doors  of  Opportunity, 

Where  she  may  wisely  enter  if  she  but 

Heeds  the  simple  law  of  Right !     "Do  first  the 

Duty  that  lies  nearest  thee."     This  doing, 

Then  bravely  onward  into  broader  fields, 

Seize  with  thy  might  whatever  duty  yields, 

Work  for  the  world,  hold  to  the  good  and  true, 

And  Honor's  crown,  O  Woman!  waits  for  von. 


120 


Earth's  Dirincst  Thin, 


HOME.     (1892.) 

The  world  has  nothing  that  is  half  so   fair 
As  that  green  island  in  its  desert  waste 
That  we  call  Home.     Oasis-like,  it  has 
Its  own  delights,  its  pleasant  atmosphere, 
Its  song  and  laughter,  and  its  hearts  that  know 
Not  doubt,  that  breathe  but  faith  and  loyalty. 
The  Sun  shines  ever  there— the  Sun  of  Love, 
And  trust  is  there,  an  angel  with  white  wings, 
And  tenderness  with  seraph  face  and  form, 
And  truth,  and  purity  divinely  fair 
And  self- forgetting,  which  does  know  no  care 
But   for  the  other's  good,  and  little 
Children,  offspring  of  chastest  love,  the  dew 
Of  Heaven  still  upon  their  hearts,  and  its 
Spotless  innocence  on  their  pure  white  souls. 
O  blessed  home!     O  well  the  poets  sang, 
"Domestic  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  fall." 


EARTH'S  DIVINEST  THING.     (1895.) 

Oh,  life  is  vast  and  very  sweet  and  fair! 
So  full  of  wonders  pulsing  everywhere; 
So  full  of  glory,  from  the  deeps  of  sky 
To  the  dim  glade  where  sweeps  the  water  by; 
So  full  of  grandeur  where  the  mountain  height 
Stands  face  to  face  with  Morning's  dawning  light, 
And  where  the  Sea  clasps  all  the  many  shores, 
And,  voiced  with  power,  its  diapason  pours 
In  full  wave-thunder  when  the  Storm  awakes, 
And  in  its  wrath  the  coast's  firm  bastions  shakes. 

How  like  a  child  the  quiet  Summer  day, 

Breathing  of  calm  and  sweetness  and  the  May 

Of  blossoming;  birds  sing,  the  light  leaves  dance, 

The  butterfly  and  bee  in  dalliance 

Touch  bud  and  opening  blossom  tenderly, 

Wafting  sweet  undertones  of  melody 

That  set  the  wide,  sweet  air  attune  with  song, 

Borne  through  the  hidden  silences  along 

Until  we  hear  sounds  that  we  cannot  hear 

Save  with  the  quickening  of  the  spirit's  ear. 

O  God's  great  world  is  ever  full  of  song! 
Divinely  uttered,  and  ever,  all  along 
Its  hidden  ways,  from  grass-blade  to  the  Sun, 
Do  its  great  harp-strings,  full  of  music,  run; 
Light  has  its  voices,  Night  its  many  strings, 
Which  some  sound  touches  and  as  quickly  flings 
Into  the  vastness  which  about  us  lies, 
Deeper  than  Earth  and  vaster  than  the  skies. 

But  of  all  things  most  wonderful  to  me, 

The  highest,  purest,  is  the  mystery 

Of  loving— the  full  reach  of  soul  to  soul, 

Of  heart  to  heart,  lying  beyond  control 

Of  selfish  purpose.     Is  there  aught  so  dear, 

So  marvelously  glad'ning  in  this  sphere 

Of  earth-life  as  this  ever-blessed  thing 

In  which  self  dies,  and  selfishness  takes  wing? 


LOVE'S  WISHES  TO  A  BRIDE.  (1896.) 

O  wedding  bells!  find  tongues  of  song! 
Ring  sweet,  ring  clear,  ring  glad,  ring  long! 
O  Day !  that  climbs  the  morning's  blue ! 
Come  robed  with  sunbeams,  with  the  gold 
Of  shining  light,  make  Earth  as  fair 
As  Eden's  morn  when  Time  was  new 
And  gladness  wandered  everywhere, 
And  love  its  first  sweet  story  told. 

O  June!  fill  all  your  fragrant  heart 

With  tender  care  for  her  whose  part 

Is  in  your  bridals,  who  today 

Takes  from  your  hand  the  gifts  you  bring — 

The  crown  of  Wifehood — jewel  it 

With  brightest  years  which  never  may 

Be  sorrow-dimmed — O  let  them  flit 

Each  one  as  fair  as  days  of  Spring! 

O   starry    skies!  bend    bright    above 
This  bridal  hour  of  youth  and  love; 
Roses  of  trust  forever  bloom; 
Lilies  of  hope  unfold  most   fair 
Along   their  path,   and   wedded   truth 
Be  fairer  in  its  later  noon 
Than   in   its   golden  morn   of  youth. 
God  bless  and  keep  you  everywhere! 

.       IF  LOVE  WERE  DEAD.     (1897.) 

My  joyous  heart  today  drinks  deep  of  life's 

Sweet  wine,  as  do  the  stars  drink  sunlight  and 

The  Earth  its  dew,  and  as  the  sea  drinks  Earth's 

Great  rivers,  as  they  run  down  to  its  deeps, 

Their  voices  glad  with  joy  of  strength,  and  filled 

With  melody  of  beauty  and  rhythmed 

Flow  of  crystal  tides,  which  mirror  the  far 

Skies  and  all  of  Day's  fair  face;  and  when  comes 

The  soft-breathing  Night,  she  drops  her  many 

Stars  into  the  water's  breast  to  dream,  and 

There  they  sleep;  although  the  river  rushes 

On,  with  still  its  waters  cradling  them,  their 

Lullabies  of  sweetness  filling  all  the 

Night.     Even  so  doth  love  cradle  my  heart, 

While  all  the  rivers  of  my  soul  run  to 

Its  mighty  sea,  while  the  bright  skies  of  hope 

Shine  with  its  sun,  and  the  many  stars  of 

Tender  thought  gleam  in  the  under-tides  that 

Ever  roll  and  fill  the  boundless  ocean 

Of  my  love's  immensity.     Oh,  soulless 

Would  life  be  if  love  were  dead!     Each 

Shining  star  would  then  go  out  in  darkness, 

And  Hope  would  lay  her  golden-tressed  head 

Upon  the  block,  and  grim  Despair,  with  strong 

Relentless  arm,  would  smite  it  with  the  axe 

Of  Death.     Men  would   fight  like  beasts,  and  hew  each 

Other  down  with  swords  of  hate  and  utter 

Selfishness.     The  home,  too,  would  be  blotted 

Out,  and  little  children,  offspring  of  lust, 

Would  drink  no  more  the  milk  of  mother-love, 

But  bitter  waters  from  the  streams  of  cold 


121 


Man  and  Woman. 


Neglect  and  death.     All  song  would  die,  and  all 

Melody  be  hushed,  and  all  light  fade  within 

Each  silent  chamber  of  the  heart,  and  God — 

Yes,  God  would  die  if  love  were  dead,  for  He 

Is  Love,  and  we  are  only  like  Him  when 

We  love.     Then  how  would  Earth  make  saddest  moan 

And  crumble  into  nothingness,  and  all 

Soul-life  turn  to  ashes !     Chaos  would 

Spring  from  beneath  Love's  pyre,  and  Hell  itself 

Anything,  if  God  were  not. 

O  man !  'tis  Love  that  lights  the  Sun  and  stars, 

And  guides  the  circling  spheres  for  aye  through  their 

Vast  orbits;  that  holds  the  Ocean  in  the  hollow 

Of  His  hand;  and  draws  the  flowing  rivers 

To  its  deep ;  that  clothes  the  fair,  sweet  Earth  with 

Loveliness,  and  fills  its  air  with   fragrance; 

That  gives  to  soul  its  life,  and  to  the  heart  its  voice 

Of  melting  tenderness,  its   swelling  tides 

Of  joy  and  planets  the  "home,  sweet  home,"  where  are 

Set  "the  solitary  in  families," 

And  the  divine  in  man  is  born  anew 

And  nurtured,  and  Heaven's  own  light  shines  forth, 

Reflected  in  the  blessed  love  of  Earth. 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN.     (1898.) 

[Written  for  a  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Parliament  assembled 
at   Redlands.] 

Down  Time's  broad  path  we'll  walk  awhile  today — 

Walk  backward  o'er  the  long  and  shadowed  way 

The  race  has  trod  since  first  Time's  morning  broke, 

And,  fair  as  light,  in  Eden's  garden  woke 

The  perfect  Mother  of  the  Human  Race; 

Perfect  in  beauty,  modesty  and  grace, 

Grand  in  the  grandeur  of  that  love  which  makes 

A  woman  royal,  and  which  ever  takes 

Self  from  her  vision,  showing  to  her  eyes 

Earth's  needy  ones,  whom  through  self-sacrifice, 

Or  kindly  word,  or  ready  outstretched  hand, 

She  may  lift  up  and  help  them  yet  to  stand 

On  nobler  heights.     Woman  as  God  made  thee!— 

Creation's  crown!— let  us  turn  back  and  see 

What  was  thy  glory,  what  made  womanhood 

The  best  of  all  things  God  pronounced  as  good. 

O  eyes  of  mine,  O  longing  vision!  see 

The  vast  unfoldings  of  infinity, 

Walk  softly  down  the  path  that  man  has  trod, 

Since  sinless  stood  he  face  to  face  with  God. 

O  Mother  Eve !     Lone  mother  of  thy  race, 
Young  Time  it  was  that  smiled  into  thy  face, 
That  stood  before  thee,  nothing  was  behind, 
But  God  was  neat.     O  first  of  womankind! 
Fair,  new-created,  thou  didst  feel  the  thrill 
Of  His  hand's  touch  as  if  it  lingered  still 
Upon  thy  forehead,  and  thy  heart  did  keep, 
Like  the  rich  perfume  of  the  blossoms  sweet, 
Adam's  first  words  of  greeting.     Love  crowned  thee 
With  nobler  grace  than  that  of  royalty. 


Thus  in  that  garden,  where  the  Past  began, 

Stood  woman,  helpmeet  of  the  perfect  man; 

Who  came  as  comes  the  blessed  light  of  Day 

To  the  dark  Earth  when  Night  had  passed  away. 

All  things  were  brighter  for  her  being  there — 

E'en  sinless  Eden  was  itself  more  fair, 

And  Adam  stood  with  grander  mien  of  grace 

To  meet  the  marvel  of  that  woman's  face. 

Hers  the  great  calm  of  trust;  serene  she  stood 

In  the  pure  majesty  of  womanhood, 

Nor  questioned  ever  which  the  greater,  she 

Or  the  man  Adam.     The  great  royalty 

Of  perfect  purpose  was  around  her  there 

In  everything:  in  the  sweet  lucid  air, 

Thrilling  with  bird-song,  pulsing  with  the  light 

Of  the  new-made  Sun  gleaming  in  the  white 

Face  of  the  opening  lily's  flower, 

And  in  the  glory  of  that  morning  hour 

When  Earth  is  fairest;  in  the  breezes  low, 

And  in  the  music  of  the  river's  flow. 

A  hush  fell  on  her  spirit,  to  her  soul 

A  deep  sense  of  reverent  worship  stole, 

Holding  her  heart  captive.     To  be  and  do 

That  which  is  highest,  holiest  and  true 

Did  her  soul  yearn  for;  self  passed  from  sight, 

As  stars  pass  from  our  vision  in  the  light 

Of  the  glad  Morning,  when  the  golden  Day 

Laughs  on  the  hilltops,  and  love  held  its  sway 

Over  her  soul,  born  with  her  perfect  life, 

And  waked  to  music  by  the  name  of  wife 

When  Adam  spake.     'Twas  then  the  Home  had  birth, 

And  for  the  coming  races  of  the  Earth 

Brightened  the   future;  it  stood  out  divine, 

Luminous  with  glory.     The  way  did  shine 

As  if  sunlighted,  and  Eve's  gladdened  eyes, 

Filled  with  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  skies, 

And  the  sweet  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul, 

Turned  unto  God  and  Adam,  and  the  whole 

Pure  Eden  atmosphere  enfolding  them 

Breathed  in  an  ecstacy  of  gladness  when 

Eve  spoke,  and  the  Day  put  fresh  glory  on, 

And  looked  with  prouder  face  unto  the  Sun; 

The  flowers  seemed  crowding  closer  as  if  near 

They  would  bloom  lovelier;  all  things  hushed  to  hear 

Her  first  earth  utterance.     'Twas  as  if  her  lips 

Were  soul-anointed,  and,  self  in  an  eclipse, 

Saw  God  and  Adam  only,  or,  still  more, 

God's  purpose  in  ner  being.     A  smile  o'er 

Her  bright  face  stole,  as  does  o'er  the  flower 

Steal  the  glad  sunbeam,  while  the  hour 

Tingled  with  beauty;  and  then,  low  and  sweet, 

As  'twere  some  blossom  breathing  at  their  feet 

A  perfumed  melody,  did  Eve's  voice  break 

The  waiting  silence,  and  at  once  did  make 

Sound  perfect  music.     Ah !  what  words  were  these 

Owning  her  joy  in  being?     Symphonies 

Of  trust  were  they.    Waiting  to  be  and  do 

All  that  her  God  would  have  her.     Adam,  too, 

With  his  white  soul,  strong,  sinless,  half  divine, 

Echoed  her  utterance,  while  at  the  shrine 


122 


The  True   Woman  and  Home. 


Of  her  pure  womanliness  he,  thought-wise, 

Gave  highest  reverence,  and  his  gl.' 

His  starry  eyes — grew  brighter  as  to  him 

His  life's  full  completeness  seemed  to  brim 

Th'  perfect  cup  of  being.     Two  souls  as  one 

Into  that  morning  of  Young  Time  had  come; 

She  holding  her  own  soul  in  her  glad  eyes, 

He  reading  it  in  joy  and  sweet  surprise, 

Glad  that  God  made  him  greater,  giving  her; 

She,  glad  to  be  thus  given,  without  a  blur 

Upon  her  new  life's  page,  to  find  her  place, 

With  the  warm  light  of  his  proud,  tender  face 

Shining  upon  her;  and  to     walk  with  him 

Within  the  path  of  Duty,  sometimes  dim, 

But  leading  heavenward  always.     O  divine 

This  self- forgetting !     Woman,  it  is  thine 

To  walk  like  Eve,  self  in  eclipse,  elate 

In  thoughts  for  others,  great,  most  truly  great 

When  thus  thou  livest,  with  no  outreaching  hand 

Grasping  for  place  and  rule,  feeding  on  husks 

Of  vain  Ambition;  waiting  as  in  th'  dusk 

Of  tyrants'  power,  when  woman  was  a  slave, 

And  then  a  plaything,  and  her  heart  the  grave 

Of  noblest  hopes,  when  vainly  she  sought  to  climb 

The  grand  highways  of  Progress;  for  her  time 

Had  not  then  ripened,  deeds  not  blossomed  yet 

That  should  yield   fruitage,  though  the  soil  was  wet 

With  tears  of  struggling  effort.     But  today 

The  darkness  of  that  age  has  passed  away; 

In  this  great  moment  of  the  present  she 

May  rule  by  might  of  gentle  purity, 

May  tread  the  highways  of  man's  highest  thought, 

Where  the  great  battles  for  the  Right  are  fought. 

Open  for  her  is  every  gate  that  leads 

To  God's  grand  purposes,  where  wisdom  feeds 

And  the  world  brightens.     Woman,  be 

Strong  in  the  promise  of  thy  destiny ! 

Earth  hath  no  power  to  work  for  human  good 

So  vast  and  grand  as  gracious  womanhood. 


THE  TRUE  WOMAN  AND  HOME. 

The  shadows  fall  across  the  quiet  hearth, 
The  eventide  draws  near;  the  golden  Sun 
Is  sinking  in  the  West  where  stars  have  birth— 
The  many  stars,  so  soon  as  Day  is  done. 

How  soft  the  murmur  of  the  breathing  winds— 
Their  tender  whispers  'mid  the  perfumed  leaves 
Of  climbing  rose  and  blossom-yielding  vines, 
Whose  clinging  arms  embrace  the  drooping  eaves. 

The  gurgling  laughter  from  the  baby's  lips 
Gladdens  the  air  like  music  in  the  night, 
For  joy  seems  oozing  from  his  finger  tips, 
And  all  his  soul  is  full  of  sweet  delight. 

He  smiling  leans  upon  his  mother's  breast; 
Her  eyes  his  heaven;  his  cradle  her  fond  arms; 
His  world  the  tender  lap  where  he  does  rest. 
All  love-enveloped,  safe  from  danger's  harms. 


The  gate-latch  clicks,  a  manly  step  is  heard; 
The  mother's  eyes  grow  luminous  with  joy, 
Her  pulse-beats  quicken,  all  her  heart  is  stirred 
With  welcome  for  the  father  of  her  boy. 

The  love-light  in  her  eyes  is  like  a  Sun; 

How  Earth's  cares  slip  away  within  their  light, 

Life's  burdens  drop;  he  brings  not  even  one; 

Love  crowds  them  quickly  from  his  thoughts  and  sight. 

The  table  spread  in  spotless  white  is  seen, 
The  silver  sparkles  and  the  soft  lights  glow; 
The  baby's  laughter  ripples  in  between 
The  tides  of  talk  in  joyous  ebb  and  flow. 

O  home,  sweet  home !     True  womanhood's  desire 
Is  like  the  stars  which  waiteth  for  the  Sun, 
Glad  to  let  melt  the  softness  of  its  fire 
In  the  bright  beams  from  which  its  light  is  won. 

MAN.     (1901.) 

How  glorious  the  golden  sunset  light, 

When  the  whole  West  aflame  with  brightness  lies, 
And  the  grand  mountains  in  their  splendor  rise, 
Reflecting  all  the  radiance  of  the  skies, 

Their  rocky  crests  transfigured  and  as  bright 

As  if  a  sun  were  cradled  on  each  height. 

It  often  seems  as  if  some  sky-built  door 

Had  backward  swung  until  we  could  behold 
The  land  beyond  the  stars,  with  streets  of  gold, 
Where  Time's  great  waters  never  yet  have  rolled, 

And  Being's  vastness  broadens  evermore 

Beyond  the  limits  of  this  earthly  shore. 

How  the  mind  wanders  gropingly  and  blind 
Through  the  great  starry  region  overhead; 
Thought's  fleetest  wings  are  evermore  outspread, 
And  onward  to  infinity  are  led, 
Beyond  the  mighty  forces  of  the  wind, 
Seeking  Creation's  outmost  bounds  to  find. 

But  the  mind  staggers  as  the  Vast  unfolds, 
Lost  in  its  littleness,  and  dumb  it  lies, 
An  atom  'mid  infinity  of  skies, 
'Mid  worlds  on  worlds  that  to  its  vision  rise. 
O  great  Creator!  who  all  matter  holds 
Within  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  and   moulds 

Each  circling  world  within  its  orbit's  space, 

And  counts  the  stars  and  calls  them  all  by  name, 
And  lights  each  sun  with  its  unceasing  flame — 
Its  glorious  path  through  ages  still  the  same, 

Casting  its  beams  in  their  allotted  place, 

O  Man!  look  up,  be  glad,  adore, 

We  bend  in  reverence  before  Thy  face. 

O  what   is   Man  that  Thou  shouldst  mindful  be 
Of  him?     A  spark  from  Thine  own  being  shed, 
Create  to  dwell  with  Thee  when  Time  is  dead, 
When  starry  worlds  have  like  a  shadow  fled. 

O   the  high   grandeur  of  his  destiny 

As  heir,  through  Christ,  of  Immortality! 


123 


Man  and  Woman. 


The  stars  veil  their  bright  faces  in  God's  light, 
Th'  Sun  seems  dark,  its  radiance  is  so  dim 
Beside  the  wondrous  splendor  shed  by  Him 
Who  is  the  Light.     The  blessed  seraphim 
Do  worship  Him,  their  angel  faces  bright 
With  His  unhindered  glory,  and  their  sight 

Brightens  like  moons  that  shed  their  dark  eclipse, 
But  high  above  them,  heaven  in  his  face, 
See  the  redeemed  of  this  our  sinful  race, 
Whom  Christ  hath  lifted  to  the  highest  place, 

Xext  His  own  throne,  where,  from  the  dear  Christ's  lips 

The  sacred  story  of  forgiveness  slips. 


For  Christ   is  thine   forevermore; 

From  sin  redeemed  through   Him  we  rise 

To  highest  realm  in  Paradise. 

II.    (1895.) 
O  Day !     O  Night !     what  mystery  is  yours  ! 

What  wide  world-sweeps  the  silent  skies  do  hold ! 

In  them  does  vast  infinity  unfold, 
Soundless  and  ceaseless;  each  orbit  lures 
Its   starry   traveler   where   space   endures, 

Vast  as  God's  thoughts  and  boundless  as  His  will: 

But  still,  O  soul  of  mine !  yet  still 
Vaster  art  thou  than  all  things;  no  such  span 
Measures  the  stars  as  that  which  measures  Man. 


124 


I£n6iscoverc6    (Tountr?. 


'The  sun  sank  lower,  and  darh'ning  shadows,  fell  on  Olivet." 


LAZARUS. 

The  day  had  broken  fair  o'er  sleeping 

Bethany.     With  diamond  luster  fell 

The  warm,  bright  sunshine  o'er  the  swooning  plains 

And  sleeping  hills.     The  breezes,  winged  with 

Coolness,  with  but  the  lightest  pulses  stirred 

The  Summer  air,  and  the  thinnest  veil  of 

Quivering  heat  lay  like  a  misty  blur 

On  the  bright  landscape.     Behind,  fair  as  a 

Dream,  its  pleasant  slopes  looking  to  the  Sun, 

As  forth  it  came  from  the  dusky  arms  of  Night, 

The  lovely  Mount  of  Olives  rose,  a 

Tireless  sentinel,  where  waved  the  pale, 

Silvered  leaves  of  sighing  olive  boughs,  which 

Shed  their  cool  rain  of  shimmering  shadows 

Upon  the  summer-dried  and  thirsty  soil. 

'Twas  here  within  these  quiet  streets,  o'erarched 

By  waving  boughs,  and  flooded  with  the  song 

Of  birds,  whose  Summer  nests  were  bidden  by 

The  silver  of  the  olive  leaf,  and  by 

The  swaying  palm,  that  Jesus  often  walked, 

As  bent  his  weary  feet  toward  the  loved  home 

Of  Lazarus,  where  busy  Martha  dwelt, 

And  gentle  Mary.     Lovely  was  Mary, 

Her  white  lids,  with  their  long,  golden  fringes 

Drooping  above  the  clear  azure  of  her 

Wondrous  eyes,  beneath  the  perfect  arch  of 

Her  snowy  forehead,  her  cheeks  smooth-rounded, 

And  touched  with  dimples,  like  a  child's,  and  a 

Rosy  flush  sweeping  in  delicate  waves 

Across  their  velvet  softness.     Her  lips  were 

Curved  like  the  strung  bow  made  ready  for  the 

Arrow's  flying;  and  gentleness  lurked  in 

All  their  lines,  and  there  sweetness  lay  cradled, 

And  soul  of  tenderness,  transforming  her, 

Until  it  seemed  as  heaven  shone  in  her 

Lips  and  face.     Bird-songs  were  not  as  sweet 

As  were  her  gentle  tones,  and  her  glad  smile 

Warmed  one  like  sunbeams.     And  Lazarus  loved 

Her.     She  was  his  comforter  and  solace, 

And  hand  in  hand  they  oft  did  steal  away 

From  bustling  Martha's  presence,  and  together 

Talk  of  the  lowly  Nazarene,  whose  coming 

Often  blessed  them,  and  whom  they  reverenced 

As  the  Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  and  so  Him  did  worship. 

But  now  Lazarus,  the  beloved 

Was  sick.     In  all  his  veins  the  consuming 

Fever  burned.     For  days  he'd  tossed  upon  his 

Couch,  and  oft  his  eyes  turned  a-seeking  for 

A  presence  that  he  missed,  and  his  lips  moved 

Beseechingly ;  and  yet  no  sound  he  uttered, 

For  speech  died  there  upon  his  tongue,  slain  by 

The  o'ermastering  demon  of  Disease. 


15 ut  Mary  knew  for  whom  his  spirit  yearned, 
And  in  brokenness  of  her  heart  she  murmured 
Oft,  "Why  cometh  not  the  Master?"     But  still 
He  stayed  and  came  not. 

On  that  morn  the  day 
Had  broken  sultry.     Not  a  single 
Leaf  stirred  in  all  the  pulseless  air.     The  hot 
Sun  burned  scorchingly,  and  steely  lines  of 
Heat  quivered  before  the  vision.     Not  a 
Cloud  dimmed  all  the  wide  expanse  of  blue, 
But  all  the  world  seemed  swooning  in  the 
Shriveling  heat.     The  sick  man  moaned  and  in 
His  wild  delirium  tossed  restlessly 
Upon  his  couch.     The  window  of  his  chamber 
Opened  toward  Jerusalem,  and  lifting 
Her  white  hand  from  his  still  whiter  forehead, 
Mary,  when  she  had  soothed  him  by  her  gentle 
Touch,  would  rise  with  steps  as  noiseless  as  the 
Wind's  across  a  field  of  wheat,  and  from  the 
Open  casement  look,  with  eyes  filled  full  of 
Longing,  down  the  long  olive-shaded  way, 
Toward  where  the  Holy  Temple's  towers  were 
Gleaming,  and  Jerusalem  was  cradled 
In  the  splendor  of  the  unhindered  light, 
Ever  the  same  sad  whisper  upon  her 
Troubled  lips:     "Why  cometh  not  the  Master?" 

The  Sun  sank  lower,  and  dark'ning  shadows 
Fell  on  Olivet.     Again  the  streets  of 
Bethany  awoke  to  breathing  life,  and 
Sounding  footfalls  came  and  went,  and  main- 
Stayed  a  moment  at  the  door  to  learn  of 
Lazarus— was  his  fever  less,  and  had 
The  Master,  whom  he  loved,  come  yet  to  heal? 
"Strange!  strange!"  they  whispered,  as  they  turned  away, 
"Why  he  doth  tarry." 

Night  passed,  and  o'er  the 

Still  gray  heights  Dawn  pressed.     The  ashen  olive 
Leaves  stirred  tremulously  in  the  faint  breeze, 
The  purple  shadows  melted  in  the  East, 
Which  grew  warm  with  rosy  flushes.     Bright  tints 
Of  amber  and  a  crimson  flood  of  light 
Fell  like  a  mantle  on  the  towering 
Heights,  and  the  wide  East  waxed  into  the 
Golden  splendor  of  the  new-born  Day.     The 
Glory  streamed  in  a  long  lance  of  living 
Light,  and  fell  upon  the  pillow  pressed  by 
The  pale  cheek  of  Lazarus.     Like  a  crown 
It  lay  a  moment  on  his  forehead.     But 
His  breath  so  feebly  came  that  Mary  bent 
Her  ear  to  list  if  breath  were  there.     A  quick. 
Faint  flutter,  then  his  eyes  unclosed.     His  lips. 
Moving  in  broken  whispers,  said,  "Dear 
Master,  come!"     Then  like  white  snowflakes  fell  his 


125 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Heavy  lids  o'er  eyes  dim  with  the  eclipse 

Of  Death.     His  chest  ceased  heaving.     Then  a  swift,  faint 

Shudder  ran  through  all  his  frame,  and  Lazarus 

Was  dead. 

The  soft  winds  came  laden  with  the 

Breath  of  violet  and  the  lily  white,  and 

Holding  the  coolness  of  the  dew,  and  its 

Light  wings  bore  bird-song  and  the  melody  of 

The  happy  lark,  which  made  melodious 

Pathway  to  the  skies.     Sweet  incense  rose  from 

The  far  Temple's  altars,  and  their  smoke  looked 

Like  pale  fingers  pointing  unto  Heaven. 

But  Mary  saw  it  not,  nor  took  note  of 

The  fair  morning.     Her  young  head,  with  its  bright 

Aureole  of  golden  hair,  was  bowed  upon 

Her  hands,  which  lay  like  white  lilies  on  the 

Couch  where  Lazarus  slept.     Not  paler  was 

Her  brother's  pallid   cheek  than  the  snowy 

Whiteness  of  her  own,  rounded  to  perfect 

Beauty.     Her  lips  were  ashen,  too,  as  they 

Made  moan:     "Dear  Master,  hadst  Thou  been  here,  my 

Brother  had  not  died!"     Yet  still  he  came  not. 

Four  days  had  passed — days  sorrow-filled, 

For  in  his  stone-wrought  Sepulcher  had  been 

Laid  away  he  whom  Death  had  claimed, 

Noble  and  well-beloved  Lazarus.     Martha 

Was  busy  in  the  house,  and  sought  to  crush 

Her  sorrow  in  her  daily  tasks.     Yet  she 

Wrought  silently,  and  on  her  lips  a  strong 

Fixed  pressure  hardened  them  to  look  of 

Sternness.     But  Mary  sat  alone  within 

The  chamber  where  Lazarus  died,  close  by 

The  open  casement,  and  with  eyes  fixed  on 

The  familiar  street,  so  often  trodden 

By  the  Savior's  feet,  as  came  He  to  their 

Home  to  tarry  with  them  for  a  night  of 

Rest;  and  now  and  then,  as  lifting  her  drenched 

Lids  she  would  make  moan,  "Where  art  Thou,  Master? 

O  Lazarus  loved  thee  well !  and  hadst  thou 

Been  with  him  he  had  not  died."     Pale  as  the 

Moon's  white  mist  she  sat  so  sorrow-touched,  so  broken 

With  her  grief.     But  at  length  a  step  she  hears, 

And  someone  calls  her  name.     She  lists  with  heart 

Throbbing  tumultously:     "Mary,  the 

Master  cometh  and  calleth  for  thee."     Swift 

Iliseth  she,  and  with  trembling  feet  makes  haste 

To  seek  Him. 

O  the  sad  beauty  of  His 
Face !     The  pitying  tenderness  within 
His  eyes,  as  Mary,  wan  as  pale  moonbeams, 
Falleth  at  His  feet,  and  clutching  at  His 
Garment's  hem,  (fries  sobbingly,  "Hadst  Thou  been 
Here  my  brother  had  not  died." 
What  was  it 

Burst  upon  her  ear,  smiting  her  words,  and 
Hushing  the  pulses  of  her  soul,  and  melting 
It  with  tender  pity  for  another's 
Woe?    O  dying  world,  be  still!     O  sin-cursed 


Earth !     God's  pitying  love  enfolds  thee.     That 
Face  divine  that  o'er  the  sorrowing 
Mary  bent  was  wet  with  tears,  for  "Jesus 
Wept."     O  holy  Nazarene !  O  God  made 
Manifest  in  flesh!     Thy  love  is  round  us 
Like  the  atmosphere,  and  thou  dost  pour 
The  wine  of  Hope  upon  the  troubled  heart; 
Breathe  not,  O  winds !  while  breathless  there 
The  gathered  throng  doth  stand  about  the  grave 
Of  Lazarus. 

List,  and  let  your  hearts  leap 
'Mid  your  tears,  and  Hope  touch  Sorrow  with  her 
Holy  hand,  lighting  her  eyes  with  gladness. 
O  all  Earth's  voices !  be  ye  dumb  while  speaks 
The  Nazarene: 

"I    am    the    Resurrection 
And  the  Life.     He  that  believeth  on  me, 
Though  he  were  dead,  yet  he  shall  live."  Mary 
Has  hushed  her  tears  and  risen  to  her  feet ; 
Her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  her  Lord.     A  smile 
Has  touched  her  lips,  and  as  one  entranced  she 
Stands  waiting  His  will: 

"Roll  ye  the  stone 

Away!"     All  breathless  stands  the  multitude, 
While  from  the  yawning  Sepulcher  the  stone 
Is  rolled.     Such  silence  then !     No  breath  or  sound. 
A  moment,  and  then  with  lifted  hand,  and 
Mien  majestic,  Christ  moveth  toward  the  tomb, 
And  then  the  still  air  hears  his  voice  ringing 
With  power.     The  waiting  multitude  close 
Round.    What  do  they  hear?    The  singing-bird  hath 
Hushed  its  voice,  and  not  a  leaf  stirred  on  the 
Olive  trees. 

"Lazarus,  come  forth!"    The 
Multitude  stood  trembling,  filled  with  a 
Solemn  awe.     A  shadow  stirs  within  the 
Sepulcher.     A  white-robed  form  is  seen.     It 
Moveth  slowly  yet  steadily,  and  lo ! 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  into  the  broad  sunlight 
Lazarus  doth  come.     The  crowd  stirs  not  for 
Wonder  and  for  awe. 

"Loose  him  and  let  him 

Go,"  low  saith  the  Master.     Then  moveth  Martha 
Forward  with  swift  steps  to  loose  his  bands, 
And  there  upright  in  the  bright  day,  the  glow 
Of  health  warm  in  his  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  filled 
With  the  radiance  of  strong  manhood's  prime, 
Death  hath  found  its  Conqueror. 
Lazarus  stands  forth  before  them  all. 

HEART  WEARINESS. 

0  land  above  the  stars ! 

How  far  away  are  ye — the  golden  bars 

That  lie  between  this  earthly  realm  of  ours 

And  blessed  life,  and  heaven's  unfading  flowers? 

1  sometimes  long  to  go, 

For  I  grow  weary  often  here  below 
Of  earthlv  life  and  its  heart  loneliness, 


126 


Life  and  Death. 


And  long  for  larger  life  and  purer  holiness. 

Each  soul  at  times  must  stand 

On  solitary  places  where  no  hand 

Can  touch  its  springs,  no  thought  but  God's  own  thought. 

Divine  its  longings,  which  earth-life  answers  not. 

How  oft  I  feel  alone, 

As  if  in  this  great  universe  were  none 

But  me,  but  me  and  God,  and  sometimes  He  is  far 

As  farthest  planet,  or  fixed,  shining  star. 

I  feel  sometimes  so  cold 

As  if  no  human  love  did  me  enfold, 

As  if  I  were  adrift  on  some  far,  shoreless  sea, 

No  soul  to  hear,  no  tongue  to  answer  me. 

And  then  I  kneel  to  pray, 
And  soon  I  feel  my  Father  come  my  way, 
And  lo!  within  my  heart  this  voice  I  hear, 
"Look  up,  my  child,  behold  thy  Father  near." 

How  fades  my  sorrow  then ! 

How  brightens  thought,  as  does  the  old  Earth  when 
Night  slippeth  down  before  the  golden  Dawn, 
And  out   of  darkness  comes  the  glorious   Morn. 

Oh,  only  here  is  rest ! 

In   God's   great   fullness  only  are  we  blest. 
His  love  is  like  Earth's  blessed  atmosphere, 
Above,  around,  within  us,  everywhere. 

LIFE  AND  DEATH. 

Life!  it  is  boundless,  and  my  heart  doth  leap 

At  its  full  meaning,  at  the  endless  sweep 

Of  man's  own  being,  which  can  never  die, 

Born  as  it  is  to  immortality. 

Death  is  but  rest,  a  pause  in  Being's  day; 

Tis  not  the  end,  'tis  but  the  vinknown  way 

That  we  must  enter  when  our  footsteps  tend 

To  larger  life.     O  Death!  to  thee  I  bend, 

Seeing  the  angel  in  thee,  for  thy  hand 

Is  tender  to  God's  children  when  they  stand 

Upon  the  borderland,  and  thou  wilt  set 

The  gates  ajar  for  them,  nor  ever  let 

Them  lose  one  blessed  ray  that  shineth  clear 

Through  these  same  gates  upon  Earth's  atmosphere. 

No  night  is  there,  and  thou  dost  bridge  the  way 

With  beams  of  faith,  although  thy  waters  may 

Seem  troubled  sometime,  yet  the  bridge  is  strong, 

The  passage  safe,  the  way  will  not  be  long, 

And  on  the  other  side  our  Father  stands, 

Life's  crown  of  glory  in  His  waiting  hands. 

THE  BABE  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

Out  from  the  East  the  milk-white  camels  came 
Laden  with  spicy  sweets.     Myrrh  and  frankincense 
Fragrant  to  the  senses,  and  treasures  rare 
They  brought  from  the  far  Orient.     LTpon 
The  desert's  silences  brave  was  the  sheik 
Who  dwelt,  and  who  there  within  his  tent  had 
Heard  a  voice  from  out  the  midnight  skies,  a 


Voice  speaking  into  his  heart,  telling  him  of  the 
Coming  One  whom  the  bright  star  should  harbinger. 
How  yearned  his  soul  for  this  mysterious 
Visitant  to  Earth !     How  He  should  come  he 
Wot  not,  whether  in  mighty  state,  and  in 
Kingly  purple  robed,  with  a  crown  of  gold,  stoned 
With  its  precious  stones,  wearing  heaven's  glory 
On  his  forehead,  even  as  the  Day  wears 
Its  clear  shining  Sun,  or  as  an  angel, 
Winged  with  the  power  of  Seraphim,  and 
By  His  simple  presence  bringing  Peace.     With 
in  the  door  of  his  white  tent  he  mused  while 
O'er  him  all  the  stars  of  midnight  shone,  and 
The  soft  desert  airs  blow  balmy  upon 
His  brow.     A  son  of  Ishmael,  he  had 
Heard  of  the  divine  Jehovah,  and  Him 
He  reverently  worshiped,  and  now  in 
Each  soft  breeze  which  blew  he  seemed  to  hear  His 
Voice  bidding  him  arise  and  seek  the 
Promised  One.     Glad  was  the  thrill  which  all  his 
Spirit  stirred,  and  in  devotion  wrapt,  with 
Brow  bared,  and  his  white  hair  stirred  by  the  breeze 
Of  Araby,  he  lifted  up  his  heart 
In  thankfulness,  then  sought  his  couch  for  rest. 
The  morninng  dawned,  and  he  while  yet  the  day 
Was  cool,  and  whispering  breezes  stirred  the 
Branches  of  the  palm,  set  out  upon  his 
Camel,  white  as  the  milk  of  kine.     Alone 
For  a  time  he  journeyed,  when  lifting  up 
His  eyes  at  length,  as  morning  brightened  and 
The  midday  heat  drew  on,  as  nearing  an 
Oasis  green,  two  other  travelers 
He  saw  draw  near.     Saluting,  they  did  each 
To  each  do  reverence,  then  from  the  mid- 
Day  heat  sought  shelter  in  the  emerald 
Coolness  'neath  the  branching  palm  whose  shadows 
Dropped  like  rain  upon  the  oasis'  breast. 
Here  rested  they  until  the  Eve  drew  near 
And  lengthening  shadows  told  of  lessening  heat, 
And  here  the  noble  Ishmaelite  told  them 
Of  his  quest.     Wise  men  were  they,  and  learned  in 
All  the  knowledge  of  the  East,  and  in  wrapt 
Wonder  they  did  hear  the  marvelous  story, 
And  as  he  made  ready  to  move  on  they  spake: 

"O  noblest  of  the  desert  sons,  if 
So  we  may,  we  will  journey  with  thee,  and 
Seek  with  thee  the  coming  King." 

"Peace  be  with 
Thee  and  thine,'  he  answered,  "and  hasten  with  me." 

Night  drew,  with  jeweled  fingers,  her  soft, 
Starry  curtain  o'er  the  world.     Cool  blew  the 
Breezes,  touching  caressingly  their  foreheads 
And  each  bronzed  cheek;  when,  lo!  at  length 
A  glory  shone  about  their  pathway,  and 
Looking  up,  beheld  the  wondrous  Star.     Then 
Each,  alighting,  knelt  upon  the  white  sands 
Of  the  desert's  floor,  bathed  in  the  full 
Refulgence  of  its  light,  while  on  their  ears  fell 
Faint  and  far  strains  of  celestial  harmony. 


127 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Again  they  journeyed  on,  and  night  and  day 

Lo!  shines  the  Star  and  leadeth  them  until 

Before  them  rise  the  gates  of  Bethlehem. 

The  sunset  light  is  fading  from  its  towers, 

The  olive's  leaves  stir  with  faint-sighing,  and 

The  cedars  breathe  but  softly.     All  Nature, 

Touched  with  peace,  seems  lying  in  a  dream. 

Scarce  has  the  heavenly  chorus  died  upon 

The  holy  place.     Out  from  the  East,  as  if 

God's  glory  were  unveiled,  with  added 

Radiance  bursts  the  wondrous  Star.     It  leadeth 

Them,  and  following  in  its  shining  path 

They  reach  the  place  o'er  which  it  lingers. 

Oh,  breathless  are  they !  and  with  uncovered 

Heads,  and  hearts  throbbing  with  new  joy,  they  enter, 

No  throne  is  there.     No  monarch  in  his  royal 

Purple.     No  crown  set  on  the  brow  of  kingly 

Conqueror.     No    wondrous-winged    Seraphim. 

Only  within  a  humble  manger  laid 

A  little  babe.     But  with  prophetic  eyes 

They  see  in  Him  the  world's  Redeemer.     They 

Catch  anew  the  angel's  chorus,  "Peace  on 

Earth,  good  will  to  men!"     Reverently  they 

Kneel,  and  with  uncovered  heads  they  worship, 

Then  ope  they  their  treasures,  even  as 

Men  shall  open  yet  their  hearts  and  pour  the 

Treasures  of  their  love  before  His  feet. 

Near  two  thousand  years  have  passed  and  still  we  sing 

Of  Bethlehem's  babe;  and  still  we  worship, 

Not  as  child  but  King;  and  still  the  treasures 

Of  our  service  and  our  love  we  give — Faith's 

Sweet  frankincense  and  myrrh  of  Sorrow 

Sanctified,  whose   fragrance  is  divine,  and 

Still  we  sing  of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

LOOK  UP. 

O  Soul  of  mine !  when  on  thee  presses  sore 
Life's  heavy  burdens  and  its  loneliness, 
With  earnest  crying  I  do  thee  implore 
To  look  not  earthward,  for  not  blessedness 
Or  sweet  surcease  from  sorrow  cometh  thence. 
Earth  hath  no  gladness  and  no  recompense 
To  answer  all  thy  infinite  desire, 
Or  give  thee  all  to  which  thou  doth  aspire. 

Oh,  there  are  lonely  Sinais  where  flash 
Grief's  awful  lightnings,  rending  all  thy  sky, 
And  wide,  lone  deserts  void  of  tenderness, 
Where  is  forever  heard  the  mournful  crash 
Of  broken  trusts,  while  scathing  Cruelty 
Hides  in  sharp  words  that  on  thy  wounds  do  press 
Like  two-edged  swords;  and,  all  bayoneted, 
Indifference  thrusts  thee  where  Love  instead 
Should  give  soft  words  and  tender  healing  bring. 

Yet,  Soul,  look  up !  let  not  thy  spirit's  wing 
Be  broken  thus,  for  heaven  lieth  near; 
Above  the  clouds  God's  sun  is  shining  still, 
And  His  great  over-heart,  O  Soul !  doth  hear 
Thy  lightest  sigh;  and  though  He  scourgeth  thee 
Sometimes  with  sorrow,  vet  I  know  he  will 


Girt  thee  with  gladness,  and  thy  life  shall  be 
Stronger  for  struggling,  gladder  for  its  tears, 
When  through  the  mist  the  Isle  of  Peace  appears. 

THE  WORLD'S  FIRST  SABBATH. 

God's  work  was  done.     In  infinite  space,  whose 
Yastness  human  thought  can  never  traverse, 
Or  e'en  approach  the  nearest  outpost  of 
Its  limitless  extent,  the  Maker's  hand 
Had  hung  the  starry  spheres,  system  within 
System,  till  all  the  deeps  of  air  were  star- 
Spangled,  wide  as  the  reach  of  the  eternal 
Years,  whose  countless  cycles  had  seen  new  worlds 
Set  in  their  mighty  circles  through  all 
The  vast  universe  of  God.     Day  had  been 
Born,  and  above  the  angry  deep  of  seas 
Iliing   the   blue   firmament.      The   new- 
Created  Sun  warmed  all  the  sapphire  skies; 
The  Moon's  bright  orb  shed  silver  beams  upon 
The  emerald  Earth;  the  dew  poured  its  first 
Baptism  upon  the  flowers,  whose 
Fragrant  incense  filled  the  fresh  new  world  with 
Sweetness;  birds  sang  their  matin  hymns  in  notes 
That  e'en  the  Seraphim  bent  low  to  hear, 
And  in  the  Garden  planted  by  God's  hand 
Was  heard  the  murmurous  roll  of  rivers 
Wide,  and  crystal  waterfalls  poured  the  soft 
Rhythm  of  their  silver  tides  into  the 
Moss-rimmed  pools  that  slept  in  the  cool  shadows 
Of  the  interlacing  boughs.     Soft  breezes 
Swayed  the  orange-laden  trees,  and  fruits,  such 
As  we  now  search  all  the  wide  world  o'er 
To  find,  in  the  unhindered  sunshine  of 
The  Garden  hung,  ripened  to  full  perfection 
Adown  the  flower-gemmed  walks,  each  step 
Pressing  rich  perfume  from  the  fragrant 
Blossoms,  came  Adam  with  his  sinless  Eve, 
Her  hair  falling  in  golden  tresses  to 
Her  feet,  her  face  of  lily  whiteness,  save 
Where  her  cheek  was  touched  with  a  delicate 
Pink,  like  that  which  lay  upon  the  petals 
Of  the  peach's  bloom;  her  eyes,  blue  as  the 
Cloudless  deep  of  skies,  uplifted  to  his 
Face,  filled  with  the  sunshine  of  her  woman's 
Soul. 

And  God,  the  Maker,  walked  with  them,  and 
Looking  round  on  all  things,  He  pronounced  them 
"Good."     And  so  He  set  his  seal  upon  the 
Works  that  He  had  made,  and  on  Creation 
Placed  His  hallowed  crown— the  Sabbath  of  His 
Rest — God's  benediction  to  the  world  He 
Loved. 

EASTER  MORNING. 

Three  days  had  passed  since  the  dumb  Earth  was  rent 
With  frightened  anguish,  and  darkness  drowned  the 
Brightness  of  the  Day,  while  yet  the  Sun  hung 
High  in  the  o'erarching  skies,  which  bent 
In  scared  wonder  above  the  awful  scene 


128 


What  Am  I? 


Of  cross-crowned  Calvary.     The  Sun  saw  there 
Its  Maker — God  Incarnate — Him  who  at 
Creation's  dawn  had  said,  "Let  there  be  light!" 
And,  lo!  the  Sun  sprang  to  his  circling  track, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  planetary  spheres 
All  answered  to  His  bidding.     The  deeps  of 
Infinite  air  were  peopled  with  unnumbered 
Worlds,  which  broke  into  ecstatic  song,  that 
Onward  rolled,  a  sea  of  melody,  which 
All  space  filled,  and  its  symphonous  waves 
Swelled  with  divinest  sweetness  on  the  far 
Shores  of  the  celestial  heavens,  where  shines 
God's  glory  forth,  "unhindered  and  undarkened 
By  a  sun." 

But  not  as  Creator  now, 
Peopling  the  mighty  voids  of  space  by  His 
World-creative  voice;  not  as  the  Father 
Of  the  human  race,  from  whose  lips  first  came 
The  breath  of  life  to  Adam's  frame,  till  he 
Became  a  living  soul,  hangs  Christ  on 
Calvary;  but  as  the  world's  Redeemer, 
Bearing  its  sins,  and  with  His  nail-pierced  hand 
Opening  again  the  door  which  Sin  had  closed 
'Twixt  man  and  heaven.     O  Love  divine !     O 
Mercy  infinite!     O  mystery  of 
Redemption !  which  e'en  angelic  hosts  can 
Fathom  never:  higher  than  they  it  lifts 
Us,  nearer  to  Him  who  was  our  sacrifice. 

The  Morning  dawns.     Soft  blows  the  fragrant  winds 

O'er  Judea's  hills.     The  leaves  stir  gently 

With  a  whispering  breath  of  melody. 

The  bird-notes  tremble  with  a  sound  of  praise. 

The  leaping  brooks  have  caught  new  tones  of  gladness, 

And  their  waters  ring  with  harmonious 

Undertones  of  song.     Heaven's  lamps  are  lit, 

And  all  the  starry  worlds  in  the  clear  blue 

Twinkle  with  rapture.     How  like  triumphant 

Anthem   roll   Jordan's   waters!     Flowers  ope 

Their  petals,  and  on  the  wide  air  pour  their 

P'ragrant  incense.     Like  lute-strings  stir  the  winds 

The  slender  grasses.     Then,  lo!  a  hush!     The 

World  of  Nature  breathless  stands,  as  if  it 

Felt  divinest  Presence  breathing  in  its 

Air.     The  dim,  starlit  Dawn  is  pulseless,  and 

The  far  skies,  with  all  their  circling  spheres,  are 

Silent.     But  lo !  a  light  breaks  in  them  which 

Is  not  of  sun  or  star,  and  the  Dawn  hears 

The  sweep  of  wings  and  sees  the  light  of 

Angel  pinions.     Down  through  the  deeps  of  air, 

While  all  the  stars  bow  down  their  faces,  come 

The  angelic  two.     Jerusalem  is 

W  rapped  in  slumber,  and  heavy  lids  close  over 

The  eyes  of  those  who  wept  at  Calvary, 

Their  hearts  the  sepulchers  of  holy  hopes. 

The  gilded  spires  and  domes  of  Israel's 

Temple  are  wrapped  in  shadow,  and  the  rent 

Veil  hangs  parted  still  before  the  holy 

Place.     Softly  the  smoke  of  incense  rises 

Like  a  ghostly  finger  to  the  skies.     But 


Xot  to  sacred  temple,  where  perfumed 
Incense  burns,  wing  the  swift  Seraphim  their 
Way,  but  to  a  lonely  garden,  lying 
Near  to  Calvary,  where  is  the  quiet 
Sepulcher  in  which  the  Crucified  doth 
Sleep.     There,  veiling  for  a  time  their  faces 
Bright  with  their  celestial  wings,  silent  a 
Moment  stand  they,  while  heaven  seems  drawing 
Near.     O  pause  'twixt  Death  and  Life!    O  moment 
Pregnant  to  our  sinful  race!     Break  into 
Singing,  O  ye  mountain  heights!  and  clap  your 
Hands,  ye  hills  which  circle  round,  and  all  Earth's 
Thousand  voices,  join  ye  in  the  song  of  triumph! 

Down  stoop  the  Seraphim,  and  with  angelic 
Hands  roll  they  the  stone  away  from  the 
Door  of  that  still  sepulcher.    O  Death!  here 
Comes  thy  Conqueror.     The  garments  of  the 
Grave  slip  from  him,  as  bend  the  angels  there 
In  their  rejoicing  worship. 

O  Easter  dawn,  O  day  so  blest ! 

Earth's  millions  lift  their  eyes, 
Faith  sees  the  pathway  through  the  tomb 

To  life  and  Paradise. 

WHAT  AM  I? 

Oh,  I  would  love,  could  it  but  be,  to  take 

This  wondrous  soul  of  mine  within  my  hand, 

And  then  with  largest  spirit  vision  stand 

To  learn  the  self  of  me,  that  which  doth  make 

To  thought,  that  of  me  which  alone  can  slake 

Its  love  and  high  ideals,  true  and  grand, 

Within  th'  infinite  sea  of  being,  and, 

Stronger  than  Death  to  endless  Life  may  wake, 

When  Time  shall  die,  and  Earth  itself  shall  be 

Less  than  a  shadow,  vanished  endlessly. 

Oh!  I,  what  am  I?     Can  I  be  a  spark 

Dropped  from  God's  being?     A  speck  of  thought  dust-born 

Into  the  mystery  of  earth  life  dark, 

Waiting  God's  touch  to  bring  life's  better  morn? 

I  am  God-made,  this  truth  I  surely  know', 

And  till  God  ceases  I  shall  never  cease, 

And  when  for  me  shall  end  Time's  restless  flow 

My  soul  shall  reach  the  fullness  of  God's  peace. 

SHALL  WE  NOT  HAIL  IT? 

The  winds  breathe  softly  as  if  half  asleep, 
Or  run  all  silent- footed  'mid  the  flowers 
Which  dream  upon  the  lap  of  Summer  hours 

That  pass  so  quickly,  all  sun-winged  and  fleet, 

Until  the  Night  comes  with  its  many  stars, 
Lifting  the  curtain  of  the  Vast,  which  lies 
Within  the  deep  infinity  of  skies, 

Across  which  daylight  throws  its  golden  bars. 

What  should  we  know  of  life  and  of  Creation  wide 
Did  not  sweet,  velvet-footed  Darkness  come 
To  lift  our  eyelids  when  the  Day  is  done, 

To  other  worlds  beyond  Time's  flowing  tide? 


129 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Or  what  of  joy  were  not  sometimes  our  eyes 
Tear-dimmed  and  saddened  by  some  heavy  woe, 
Which  makes  us  pray  for  comfort  till  we  know 

Our  Father  hears,  down-bending  from  the  skies? 

Heaven  lieth  very  near,  the  thinnest  veil 

Shuts  it  from  sight,  and  there  Our  Father  stands, 
With  tender  mercies  filling  both  His  hands — 

His  outstretched  hands  that  we  shall  see  when  pale 

We  rest  serene  upon  great-bosomed  Death, 
Who  will,  uplifting,  take  our  souls  and  bear 
Them  tenderly  _to  God's  own  loving  care, 

And  bid  us  live  with  Him  when  fails  our  earthly  breath. 

Ah,  that  sweet  night-time  with  its  morning  near, 
Its  Morn  of  peace  and  blessed  life  to  be, 
With  all  the  fullness  of  Eternity! 

Shall  we  not  hail  it  when  it  draweth  near? 

"GOOD-NIGHT,  DEAR  ONE!" 
(Mrs.  Jennie  Damarin.) 

With  folded  hands  like  lilies  white,  and  sweet 

Eyes  closed,  and  lips  with  silence  touched,  she  sleeps. 

And  yet  she  wakes.     Death  hath  swung  wide  the  door 

To  longer  life,  to  fairer  morning.     The 

Father  whom  she  loved  hath  sent  for  her, 

Bidding  her  home;  and  there  was  but  one  path 

By  which  her  feet  could  go— the  white,  still  path 

Which  lieth  through  the  Grave,  and  there 

Within  its  portals  mortality  did 

Slip  from  her,  and  all  the  chains  of  Earth,  and 

All  its  sorrows  and  its  cares,  and  the  new 

Life  dawned,  and  gladness  wrapped  her  like  a 

Garment.     Ah,  how  fragrant  her  memory 

Will  be !     Her  smile  was  sunshine,  and  her 

Speech  was  gentleness  and  tenderness,  and 

Her  face  was  like  a  flower,  a  lily 

In  its  purity.     Her  lips  dropped  only 

Pleasant  words,  and  she  was  glad  in  life,  and 

Her  soul  was  full  of  joy  in  all  things  fair; 

And  how  tender  was  her  heart  for  those 

Whom  sorrow  touched,  or  suffering!     Gentle 

Her  ministry,  and  thoughtful  her  watchful 

Love.     Ah !  can  we  wonder  that  God  loved  her 

And  took  her  home? 

Good-night,  dear  one,  until 
The  time  shall  come  when  we  shall  say,  "Good  morn!" 

THE  SWEETS  OF  PARADISE. 
(On  the  death  of  a  child.     1866.) 

Why  should  we  weep  when  our  children  pass 
From  us  to  Heaven?     Grim  Death  is  but  an 
Angel  in  disguise,  who  brings  the  summons 
From  those  shining  shores,  and  round  their  pure 
Young  spirits  throws  the  robes  of  immortality. 
A  crown  in  Heaven  was  waiting,  and  the 
Name  it  bore  was  Imogene,  writ  there  by 
Him  who  loveth  little  children.    An  harp 


Was  voiceless,  waiting  for  the  touch  of  tiny 

Fingers.     A  white  robe  lay,  all  spotless  made 

By  the  redeeming  blood  of  Him  who  in 

His  bosom  bears  the  tender  lambs,  and  round 

It,  like  a  vine,  bordering  the  garment's 

Hem,  traced  in  the  soft  glory  of  Heaven's 

Alphabet,  was  still  the  name  of  Imogene. 

And  so  the  summons  came.     Ye  laid  her  on 

Her  couch,  and  night  and  day  watched  by  her  with 

Fond  and  tender  love,  longing  to  keep  her 

Here. 

Like  a  flower,  unfolding  day  by  day 
In  the  warm  sunlight,  alway  she  had  grown 
More  lovely. 

Ye  did  not  deem  the  while,  as 
Ye  watched  the  bright  unfolding,  that  your  bud 
Was  blossoming   for   Heaven.     But  so  it  was ! 
The  fragrance  stealing  into  the  spirit's 
Tender  petals  was  not  to  shed  its  sweetness 
On  the  desert  air  of  earth.     The  sweets 
Of  Paradise  were  not  complete  without 
It.     The  crown,  the  harp,  the  robe  were  ready, 
And  so  your  darling  in  her  glad  young  years 
Went  home. 

LIFE'S  SUNSET  SEA.     (1876.) 

Oh,  the  golden-haired  Day  is  dying 

Afar  in  the  shadowy  West, 
And  the  crimson-robed  Clouds  are  flying 

In  troops  to  the  place  of  her  rest. 

Not  a  pulse  is  astir  in  the  ether, 

Not  a  whisper  comes  down  from  the  sky, 

Not  a  star  that  makes  moan  or  a  murmur 
As  fades  the  soft  light  from  her  eye. 

But  Night,  as  a  dusty-robed  mourner, 
Kneels  down  with  her  shadow  and  pall, 

And  over  the  bier  of  the  Daylight 
Lets  the  beautiful  moonbeams  fall. 

And  out  from  the  dew  and  the  silence 

The   glory  of  starlight  is  born, 
And  Night  whispers,     "Out   from  the  darkness 

Cometh  ever  the  beauty  of  Morn." 

So  out  of  the  darkness  of  dying 

Comes  the  beautiful  life  to  be; 
The  palm,  and  the  crown  and  the  glory 

Lie  over  life's  sunset  sea. 

GATES  AJAR.     (1876.) 

.     .     .  I  looked,  last  eve,  upon  the  rosy  bar 
The  sunset  flung  across  the  glowing  West, 
And  wished  some  hand  would  set  the  gates  ajar, 
And  let  me  enter  through  them  into  rest. 
Yet  would  I  go,  life's  labor  still  unwrought 
And  hope  for  heavenly  joy  and  holy  calm? 
Could  I  thus  gain  the  rest  for  which  I  sought 
If,  faithless  here,  I  had  not  won  my  palm? 


130 


Faith  —  Soul-Speech. 


FAITH.     (1878.) 

My  bark  is  drifting  toward  a  shoreless  sea— 
The  great  grand  ocean  of  the  vast  To  Be. 

And  by  and  by  Death's  tidal  wave  shall  surge, 
And  bear  me  far  beyond  Time's  outer  verge. 

No  starry  light  my  mortal  eyes  shall  see, 
For  they  shall  close  in  sightless  mystery. 

And  standing  dumb  upon  that  waveless  shore, 
No  human  voice  shall  reach  me  evermore. 

Over  the  waveless  sea  of  Silence,  pale, 
Dead,  yet  undying,  I  shall  turn  my  sail. 

How  shall  I  reach  my  port,  how  guide  my  bark 
Across  the  trackless  waters,  soundless,  dark? 

0  dead,  blind  eyes!     O  dull,  unlistening  ears! 
O  luring  phantom  sails  of  faithless  fears ! 

Ye  cannot  wreck  my  bark,  ye  cannot  make  me  stray 
A  single  league  from  out  the  sure,  safe  way! 

For  lo!  a  silver  thread  from  out  the  cloud 
Of  darkness  that  lies  round  me  like  a  shroud! 

A  silver  thread,  a  shining  oar  is  seen, 

A  white-winged  pilot  stands  the  sails  between. 

Clear-visioned   Faith!   she  makes  the   darkness  light, 
And  lo!  celestial  shores  burst  on  my  sight. 

NO  BAR,  0  FATHER!     (1879.) 

1  look  through  light  of  blue  December  skies, 
Through  which  the  Sun  all  day  pours  golden  tides; 
Their  rain-washed  deep  like  a  vast  sapphire  lies, 
With   fleecy   clouds   like   pearls   above   the   crests 
Of  the  grand  mountains.    What  wondrous  lights! 
What  mystery  of  shade!     What  royal  tints 

Of  blue  and  purple  have  these  baptized  heights 
Put  on! 

What  miracle  of  vision!     Hints 
Of  canoned  deeps  and  precipices  high, 
Before  by  distance  darkened,  now  I  see, 
As  if  the  mountains  had  drawn  nearer  by, 
Had  condescended  to  come  down  to  me. 
So  does  the  rain  of  Sorrow  often  make 
Faith's  vision  clear,  till  we  behold  afar 
Infinite  heights  of  the   great  love  divine, 
And  deeps  of  His  compassion,  and  we  take 
Hold  of  sure  hopes  before  unseen;  no  bar, 
O  Father!  then,  between  our  souls  and  thine. 

NOT  DYING  BUT  UNDYING.     (1879-) 
(On  the  death  of  a  kinswoman.) 

What  we  call  death  is  simply  life's  enlargement, 
The  dropping  of  the  fetters  that  have  bound 
The  spirit;  the  loosing  of  prison  bars; 
A  sudden  growth;  the  birth  of  a  feeble 
Embryo  life  to  full  and  perfect  being. 


Here  I'm  a  worm;  there  a  bright  chrysalis 
With  immortal  wings.     Here  groveling  and 
Groping   for   the   light;   there,   with   unhindered 
Vision,  all  eye,  all  ear,  with  soul  enlarged- 
Reflection   of   infinity.     Xo   shadow 
Falls  upon  the  spirit;  no  blight  upon 
Its  growth;  no  dull  and  dormant  hours;  no  dark 
Eclipse  of  pain;  no  stagnant  doubts; 
No  dying  but  undying,  where  we  in 
God's  own   light,  soul-ripened  and  perfected, 
Live  on  with  Him  in  glory. 

SOUL-SPEECH.     (1880.) 

Words  cannot  write  the  poem  which  was  flung 
Last   eve,   in   sunset   rhythm,  on  the  sea   and  beach— 
The  great  calm  sea  where  scarce  a  ripple  sung, 
And  only  low-voiced  waves  the  sands  did  reach. 

In  some  fair  Sometime  yet  to  come 

Shall  not  the  poet  learn  new  tricks  of  speech? 

Words  that  shall  have  soul,  color,  warmth  and  light, 

And  pulsing  fire,  and  quick  thrills  such  as  now 

Are  but  the  intangible  essence  of  unspoken  thought?— 

Thought-words  can  no  more  clothe  than  can  the  hand 

That  guides    through    fresh    Spring    furrows    the    sharp 

plough, 

Clothe  the  dead  bones  the  plough  upturns  with  aught 
Of  life. 

Shall  we  for  aye  thus  voiceless  stand, 
Mocking  emotion  with  the  shallow  thing 
Which  we  call  speech?     Dumb,  voiced  with  emptiness 
It  is,  filling  the  soul  no  more  than  does  the  stone  we  fling 
Into  the  great  sea  fill  all  the  bosom  of  the  deep; 
Xo  more   than   does   the  mote,   which    in    the    sunbeam 

floats,  fill 
All  of  space. 

O  soul-speech !  not  until  we  sleep 
And  wake  to  higher  life  shall  it  be  ours, 
Full-voiced  and  sweet  as  God's  own  lips  had  spoke, 
Breaking  the  silence  which  this  life  has  never  broke. 

TRANSFIGURATION.     (1882.) 

The  fog  crept  up  and  covered  all  the  hills, 

As  if  God  trailed  His  mantle  from  the  heights, 

The  lofty  mountain  heights  that  stood  beyond, 
Transfigured  in  the  glory  of  the  sunset  lights. 

Ah!  how  shall  words  paint  colors  such  as  those? 

How  frame  the  sunset  glory  in  mere  sound? 
The  ruby  walls,  the  jasper  peaks  which  rose 

Above  the  shrouded  hill-tops  like  a  crown? 

"fwas  like  a  new  creation!  no  more  uplift 

Were  the  bare,  frowning  mounts  that  through  the  day 

Had  walled  us  in.     Their  cold  gray  peaks, 
Their  rock-ribbed  fronts,  they  all  had  passed  away. 

And  there,  as  if  the  gates  had  dropped  ajar— 
The  gates  that  lie  upon  the  Border  Land, 

Disclosing  to  Earth's  vision  all  the  heights 

Where  God's  redeemed  in  the  new  life  shall  stand— 


131 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Uprose  the  mountain  in  a  flood  of  gold, 

Luminous  as  the  Sun,  with  banks  where  flowed 

Rivers  of  rubies,  sapphires  melted  down, 
And  all  outspread  where  peaks  of  amber  glowed. 

Below,  the  cold  gray  fog  spread  like  a  sea, 

A  pall  between  me  and  the  mountains  grand, 

Even  as  Death's  darkness  lies  between  us  here 
And  the  bright  glories  of  the  Better  Land. 


THE  SOUL'S  RELEASE.     (1882.) 
(On  the  death  of  a  mother.) 

You  must  not  deem  her  dead,  although  her  grave 

Is  made  beneath  the  cloudless  Summer  skies; 

Although  above  it  bend  the  leaf-crowned  trees, 

And  songful  birds  pour  out  their  symphonies 

From  the  green  boughs  whose  shadows  round  her  fall; 

Though  golden  sunbeams  kiss  her  head  and  feet, 

And  her  dear  presence  from  your  home  has  gone, 

And  lonely-hearted  you  sit  there  and  weep. 

'Tis  but  the  Night-time  for  her  body's  rest— 

The  fair  sweet  Morning  of  her  soul's  release; 

The  grave,  the  door  through  which  her  footsteps  pressed 

To  the  fair  hill-tops  of  eternal  peace. 


THE  WORLD'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS.     (1882.) 

Under  the  starry  skies,  outspread  like  a 
Glorious   curtain   o'er  the  sacred  hills 
And  fair  green  plains  of  Judea's  holy  land, 
Watching  their  flocks,  the  ancient  shepherds  sat. 
The  tinkling  waters  of  a  silver  brook 
Made  melody  beneath  the  graceful  palms; 
The  dark-hued  olive  dropped  its  ashen  leaves, 
Raining  soft  shadows  on  the  crystal  stream 
Whereon  the  moonlight  slept,  while  the  far  stars 
Looked  down,  as  to  another  heaven,  where 
Jordan  rolled,  and  where  Gennesaret's  pure 
Waters  lay,  world-starred,  mirroring  the 
Midnight  skies. 

Men  of  such  noble  mien  those 

Shepherds  were,  with  kingly  brows,  where  thought  fulness 
Enthroned  marked  every  line,  and  reverent 
Faith  shed,  like  a  halo,  light  upon  each 
Dark  Jewish  face,  touching  them  with  such  look 
Of  grand  repose  as  if  their  souls  were 
Anchored   fast  unto  some  living  hope. 
Since  fell  the  twilight  they  had  sat  and  mused, 
Not  as  in  sullen  silence,  but  as  those 
Who  ponder  some  great  thought,  and  turn  it  o'er 
And  weigh  it  well,  and  view  it  in  all  lights, 
And  by  some  subtle  process  of  the  mind 
Sift  it  free  from  sophistry  and  darkful 
Doubts,  till,  like  the  Sun,  unclouded  as  its 
Noon,  it  shines  forth  unhindered  in  the  light 
Of  clear,  unquestioned  truth. 

At  last,  of  these 
The  eldest,  he  with  long,  dark,  flowing  beard, 


And  eye  bright  as  the  fires  that  burned  on 
Jewish  altars,   spoke.     Ben   Ezra  was  his 
Name.     His  tone  was  full  of  fervor,  and  his 
Speech  dropped  hope  like  clew,  breaking  the  stillness 
Of  the  quiet  hour,  so  that  the  echoes 
Woke  and  murmured  o'er  his  speech: 

"Brothers,  we 

Know  the  prophets  well,  for  day  by  day,  through 
The  long  years  since  childhood's  morn,  in  our  down- 
Sitting  and  up-rising  we  have  conned 
Them  o'er,  and  we  have  talked  upon  the 
Hillsides   green,  and  by  the  running  brooks  in 
The  bright  noontide,  and  in  the  starlit  hours 
When  the  clear  heavens  seemed  whispering  of 
Peace,  of  Him  the  Prince  of  Peace,  whose  coming 
For  we  wait.     Last  night  I  dreamed,  as  silver- 
Lipped  the  stream  murmured  in  its  melodious 
Speech  of  running  waters  beside  me  where 
I  slept,  the  emerald  grasses  for  my 
Pillow,  and  the  starlight  dropping  in  a 
Tender  flood  of  radiance,  while  the  Moon 
Hid  her  bright  face  for  a  few  moments'  space 
Behind  the  shining  whiteness  of  a  cloud. 
All  yesterday,  you  know,  our  speech  was  full 
Of  Him  for  whom  all  Israel  waits — the 
Mighty  One,  the  Promised,  who  shall  bring  to 
Us  deliverance  from  Caesar's  yoke,  and 
Make  Jerusalem  again  the  glory 
Of  the  Earth.     Well,  as  I  said,  1  slept;  my 
Sleep  at  first  profound  and   dreamless;  then 
Something  seemed  to  touch  me,  and  my  inner 
Senses  fill  with  beatific  vision. 
Like  Israel,  our  father,  in  the 
Ancient  days,  I  saw  down-reaching  from  the 
Starry  heavens  a  ladder,  with  its  rounds 
Of  light,  like  the  spun  gold  of  sunbeams.     'Twas 
Slender  as  the  spider's  web,  and  yet  it 
Shone,  lighting  the  night  with  radiance  that 
Dimmed  the  brightness  of  the  moon,  so  bright  the 
Brightest  sunbeams  of  the  noon  would  have  seemed 
Black  beside  it;  while  clown  it  came,  descending 
With  a  step  as  light  as  Summer  air,  with 
Face  o'ershadowed  with  cherubic  wings,  and 
Form  enwrapped  in  robes  of  trailing  glory, 
Fairer  than  the  white  light  of  the  awak'ning 
Day,  an  angel  messenger.     I  felt  its 
Breath  upon  my  spirit,  as  whispering 
With  a  still  small  voice  it  said,  "The  blessing 
Of  the  Highest,  O  son  of  Israel! 
Rest  on  thee  and  on  thy  people,  for  lo! 
The  fullness  of  the  time  has  come,  and 
Zion's  King  is  waiting  at  her  gates." 
Scarce  had  Been  Ezra's  story  ended,  while 
His  listeners  sat  in  wondering  silence 
Round  him  there,  when  lo !  the  heavens  grew  bright, 
The  infinite  skies  stood  wide  asunder, 
And  a  glory  that  was  not  of  Earth 
Lighted  the  hills,  and  all  the  plains  waxed 
Into  splendor,  and  before  them  stood  a 
Form  in  whiteness  brighter  than  the  Sun,  and 


132 


On  the  Beach. 


More  irradiate  than  diamonds  in 
Its  lustrous  shining.     With  open  wings  spread 
Wide,  it  came  downward  from  the  midnight  skies. 
"Fear  not,"  it  said,  and  its  angelic  speech 
Was  like  the  melody  of  song,  "for  unto 
You  I  bring  glad  tidings  of  great  joy;  for 
Unto  you  is  born  on  this  glad  day  the 
Savior  promised,  which  is  Christ  the  Lord."     'ilie 
Angel  ceased,  and  lo!  such  multitude  of 
Heavenly  hosts  from  the  invisible 
Deeps  of  air  outsprang,  it  seemed  as  Heaven 
Had  down-dropped  to  the  Earth,  and  all  its 
Glory  poured  upon  the  sacred  hills  of 
Judea,  and  the  Earth  waked  to  their  music; 
Not  an  echo  but  seemed  angel-tongued.     Birds 
Filled  the  trees  and  trilled  melodies  of  Eden; 
The  rivers  were  like  lutes  and  poured  melodious 
Symphonies  of  waters;  every  breeze- 
Touched  leaf  was  lipped  with  song,  and  from  the 
Flowers  unfolding  there  arose  from  'midst 
Their  dewy  petals  a  tide  of  fragrant 
Incense,  with  sweet,  harmonious  undertone 
Of  praise. 

But  over  all  rang  the  angelic 
Chorus,  "Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 
And  on  Earth  peace,  and  good  will  to  men!" 

II. 

O  angel  hosts   above  Judea's   hills, 
The  Earth  drinks  in  the  melody  you  pour 
Through  all  the  starry  spaces.     The  hills  lift 
Up  their  heads  as  they  would  thrust  them 
Farther  heavenward,  and  wave  their  cedars 
In  bannered  gladness.     The  little  brooks  leap 
Down  and  their  waters  pour  in  hallelujahs, 
While  fresh  melody  is  hid  in  Jordan's  waves. 
O  hour  so  fair,  so  full  of  flowery  fragrance, 
Poured  like  incense  sweet  on   Night's  dim  altar ! 
What  means  the  glory  of  that  rising  star? 
Like  God's  eye  it  shineth  in  the  East,  and 
The  starry  spheres  fall  on  their  faces  as 
It  brightens  when  they  would  worship.     Even 
The  air  is  pulseless,  and  a  smile  is  on 
Nature's  face  as  if  God's  hand  had  touched  her. 
Ah,   and   it   hath!   God's   self   is   there.      Xo  eye 
Did   see  His   coming,  but  as   a   little 
Babe  at   Bethlehem,  God  hath  put   on  the 
Garments  of  our  flesh,  and  angels  pour  the 
Melody  of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

ON  THE  BEACH.     (1884.) 

Across   the   waveless   bay    I    look   afar — 
The  winds  are  sleeping,  and  the  waters  dream 
To  where  the  islands  like  a  golden  bar 
Lie  on  the  pulseless  deep;  the  sunset  gleam 
Has  paved  a  golden  path  across  the  deep, 
Touching  the  West;  a  crimson  curtain  hangs 
With  fold  on  fold  along  the  horizon's  sweep. 
What  lies  behind  it?     Lo!  a  shining  star 


Through  a  faint  rift — a  jeweled  spring 
C'ould  we  but  touch,  mayhap  the  gates  ajar 
Would   swing,  the  wide  infinite  deeps  of  air 
Disclosing,  and  through  Heaven's  star-hinged  door 
Might  float  some  echo  that  our  ears  would  reach 
Of  spirit  life  upon  the  other  shore. 

"TO  YOU  THIS  DAY  A  CHRIST  IS  BORN." 

(Christmas,  1885.) 

O  arching  skies!  starlit  and  glorified, 

Bending  above  Judea's  hills,  where  low 
Gennesaret  sleeps  and  Jordan  pours  its  tide, 

What  power  has  touched  you  that  you  brighten  so? 

Lo!  the  far  East,  expanding  high  and  wide, 
As  if  some  mighty  comet  were  unfurled, 
Or  else  some  curtain  from  this  lower  world 

Were  lifted  and  heaven's  gates  flung  open  wide! 

And,  hark!  the  tremulous  trees  in  music  break; 

The  running  brooks  take  on  angelic  tone; 

The  flowers  breathe  in  melodious  undertone, 
And  grasses  to  symphonious  utterance  wake. 

Judea's  hills  are  touched  with  glory,  too, 
They  lift  their  tops  in  reverent  worship  all, 
And  birds  in  praise  unto  each  other  call, 

And  brighten  still  the  wide  expanse  of  blue. 

Upon  the  midnight  hills  the  shepherds  kneel, 
Their  gaze  uplifted  to  the  opening  skies, 
While  reverent  wonder  fills  their  waiting  eyes, 

As  the  cleft  blue  the  heavenly  hosts  reveals. 

"Glory  to  God!"  O  song  of  songs  they  sing, 

"And  peace  on  earth;"    Heaven  bends  in  mercy  sweet: 
"Good  will  to  men"  the  angel  tongues  repeat, 

Which  Heaven  and  Earth  with  answering  echoes  ring. 

Brightened  the  hills  as  rang  the  angels'  song, 
And  wide  asunder  waxed  the  starry  skies, 
And  sweeter  grew  th'  angelic  symphonies, 

"For  lo!  to  you  this  day  a  Christ  is  born!" 

O  tidings  glad  that  through  the  ages  ring! 

O  day  of  days  that  to  the  race  belongs! 

We  kneel  as  knelt  Judea's  shepherd  throngs 
And  hail  the  Christ,  Redeemer,  Lord  and  King! 


TRUTH'S  TWILIGHT  AND  DAWN.     (1885.) 

In  the  old  days  when  gods  filled  all  the  skies 
And  peopled  all  the  heights  that  to  the  Sun 

In  their  proud  solitarv  majesty  arise, 
Where  daylight's  last  rays  linger  when  the  day  is  done, 

When  Neptune  ruled  the  seas,  and  Phoebus  stole 
His  father's  burning  chariot  from  the  Sun, 

And  drove  his  fiery  steeds  with  slackened  rein; 

When  proud  Jove  thundered,  and  Vulcan's  mighty  stroke 

Smote  the  still  air  until  it  shuddering  woke 

From  silence;  and  bloody  Mars  marshaled  his  train 

For  awful  wars,  and  men  walked  blind, 


133 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Smitten  by  angry  gods  and  helpless  in  their  snare, 
Tortured  by  doubt  and  by  unspoken  dread, 

Lifting  dumb  hands  to  gods  they  knew  not  where 
To  find,  but  who  somewhere  in  infinite  deeps  overhead 

Held  godlike  state,  and  mighty  revels  kept, 
Life  was  scarce  worth  the  living — 'twas  the  twilight  time 

Of  Truth — man's  faith,  his  spirit-nature  slept. 

Yet  then  were  intellectual  giants; 

Homer  sang  in  strains  that  bade  defiance 

In  their  grand  deathlessness  to  latest  time; 

And  Virgil,  in  his  strains  not  less  sublime, 

Sang  for  the  ages;  Socrates,  the  king 

Of  ancient  wisdom,  uttered  thoughts  that  ring 

Through  the  Today  of  men;  he  almost  laid 

Hold  of  Faith's  white  mantle;  men  eager  stayed 

Hungry  for  something  that  he  could  not  give, 

For  some  grand  hope  that  would  undying  live, 

They  read  of  Hades  and  Tartarus  dark, 

Of  awful  Pluto,  and  of  him  whose  bark — 

The  Silent  Boatman — bore  men's  helpless  souls 

Down  the  dark  current  which  Death's  river  rolls; 

Of  Cerberus,  that  hundred-headed  monster  who 

Guards  the  gate  of  Hades,  and  from  whom  they  know 

Of  no  escape;  of  the  dread  Furies  there 

In  Pluto's  realm,  whose  cup  of  dark  despair 

And  awful  torment  men  must  ever  drain, 

While  torn  and  maddened  by  their  deathless  pain. 

What  wonder,  then,  that  'mid  these  pangful  fears 

Men  longed  for  visions,  longed  for  gods  to  speak 

And  chase  away  the  doubts  of  doubting  years; 

What  wonder  that  they  held  that  prayers  were  weak, 

Since  to  them  from  the  god-filled  deep 

Of  skies  no  answer  came — the  tortured  air, 

Rent  by  their  cries  of  yearning  and  despair, 

Gave  naught  but  voiceless  silence,  and  their  hearts 

Fed  on  themselves,  and  gnawed  till  Hope  was  dead. 

And  Doubt  consumed  them,  and  their  dumb  gods  fled 

Among  the  innumerable  stars  so  far, 

So  pitiless,  men  turned   at  length  to   Fate — 

That  awful  Thing — relentless,  cruel,  blind,  unconquerable. 

Then  came  the  Dawn!  far  in  the  East  it  broke, 

Among  Judea's  hills  its  splendor  stirred, 
When  God  from  star-lit  skies  to  shepherds  spoke, 

And  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man"  was  heard. 
No  more  the  darkness  of  the  soulless  Doubt, 

Xo  more  the  gods  of  mythologic  story ! 
Ring  the  old  age  of  helpless  torture  out, 

Ring  in  the  new  of  Revelation's  glory. 


ETERNITY.     (1885.) 

I  said,  when  I  am  dead  the  world  will  be  the  same, 
The  happy  Sun  will  shine,  and  the  sweet  Winter's  rain 
Will  come  to  wake  the  early  flowers,  whose  perfume  sweet 
Will  fill  the  golden  air;  the  fair,  high  stars  will  greet 
Fond,  loving  eyes,  and  e'en  as  in  the  long  ago 
I  heard  the  old,  old  story,  they  shall  hear  and  know — 
Those  glad  young  lovers  who  in  after  years  shall  come 


And  find  such   fresh,  new  joy  in  living  when  I'm  done 
With  all  earth  has  to  give,  when  in  this  world  for  me 
Is  but  the  grass-clad,  narrow  grave  wherein  I  sleep, 
Anear,  perhaps,  the  soft  whispering  of  the  sea, 
And  where  their  silent  watch  the  lofty  mountains  keep. 
But  O  the  glory  of  the  waking  from  that  sleep 
Unto  the  life  beyond,  with  its  eternal  sweep ! 

LET  ME  FIND  THEE.     (1885.) 

Within  my  heart  a  great,  strong  tidal  wave 

Uplifts  me  far  above  the  quiet  calm 

Of  every  day's  weak,  unimpassioned  life — 

Lifts  me  to  high  yearning;  I  stretch  out  my  arm 

To  God  and  Heaven,  my  soul's  crying  rife 

With  strong  desire  that  God  Himself  would  show 

Me  something  of  Himself,  teach  me  to  know 

What  God  is.     I  see  his  hand  in  all  things 

In  this  fair  world;  each  happy  bird  that  sings, 

Each  golden  ray  of  sunshine,  each  soft  breeze, 

Each  blade  of  grass,  the  tall  and  stately  trees, 

The  fragrant  flowers,  the  laughing  brooks,  the  sea, 

The  mountains,  all  voice  Deity  to  me. 

But  through  Thy  heart,  O  God!  let  me  find  Thee! 

OUR  LARGER  LIFE.     (1885.) 

What  is  existence  worth  without  the  soul's 
Enlargement?     To  be,  to  breathe  the  full  pure 
Air,  to  look  on  beauty,  hear  sweet  sound,  and 
To  rejoice  in  the  bright  sunshine,  enjoy 
The  sweets  of  taste,  the  charm  of  odorous 
Fragrance,  the  rich  gladness  of  our  pleasant 
Friendships,  the  romance  of  Love's  rainbowed  beauty, 
The  gold  which  Plenty  brings  to  purchase  pleasure 
Is  not  life.     These  alone  touch  not  the  brim  of 
Being,  but  are  the  shallows  of  its  great 
Sea,  the  light  and  sportive  ripples  that  play 
Upon  its  surface;  while  its  deep,  infinite 
Depths,  which  no  plumb-line  but  that  of  the 
Eternal  e'er  can  fathom,  lie  still  and 
Unexplored. 

There  is  beyond  all  this  that 

Which  makes  our  life's  completeness — makes  its  sum. 
What  would  we  say  of  him  whose  whole  life  had  been 
In  some  old  mine,  wandering  amid  its 
Sunless  ways,  his  only  firmament  the 
Ragged  mineral  roof  man's  hand  had  hewn; 
His  world  bounded  by  the  black  supporting 
Columns  carved  from  the  bedded  coal,  its  whole 
Circumference  sunless  and  soundless  save 
As  lighted  by  some  dim  lamp's  glow,  or 
Echoing  to  the  sound  of  pick  and  spade, 
Of  careless  jest  and  laughter,  or  sudden 
Moan  of  pain?     Should  he  claim  that  he  knew  life 
In  all  its  fullness?     He  whose  eyes  had  ne'er 
Looked  upon  the  Sun,  or  the  Midnight  with 
Its  star-sown  field  of  worlds  innumerable; 
Whose  ear  had  ne'er  caught  the  thunderous  voice 
Of  cataracts,  or  the  roar  of  Old  Ocean  lashed 
Into  fury  by  the  tempest;  to  whose 


134 


Cradled  With  God. 


Eyes  the  mountains,  voiceful  of  Omnipotence, 
And  on  which  the  far  skies  lean,  were  strangers; 
To  whom  the  emerald  of  the  branching 
Trees,  the  world  of  many-tinted  blossoms, 
The  sunrise  and  the  sunset  glory  painted 
Upon  the  infinite  canvas  of  the 
Heavens  were  all  unknown,  undreamed  of? 
To  whom  all  knowledge,  save  that  of  daily 
Needs  and  human  passions,  was  a  closed  and 
Letterless  book,  whose  lids,  covered  with  the 
Dust  of  his  own  stirless  ignorance,  his 
Unseeking  hand  had  never  lifted? 

Give  me  the  larger  life  Heaven  meant  for  man — 
With  soul  awake,  and  each  mental  power 
With  the  fair  lustre  of  bright  thought  aglow, 
Waxing  in  strength,  and  as  new  stars  rise  in 
The  firmament,  so  in  the  mental  heavens 
To  constellations  of  new  thoughts,  and  suns 
Of  truth,  while  my  intelligence,  like  an 
Electric  flood,  sweps  God's  wide  universe. 

This  is  what  gives  to  us  a  larger 

Vision,  which  helps  us  to  catch  the  subtle 

Fullness  Nature  holds  in  forest  loveliness, 

And  helps  us  see  the  handwriting  of  the 

Infinite  amid  the  stars,  and  to  trace 

Amid  the  old  and  hoary  rocks  of  Earth's 

Piled  strata  the  written  story  of 

Creation's  page;  to  analyze  the 

Elements,  weigh  suns  and  measure  the  deeps 

Of  skies;  to  harness  the  lightnings  and  force 

Them  like  trained  steeds  to  speed  at  our  bidding, 

Freighted  with  speech  across  wide  continents 

And  under  storm-tossed  seas;  to  make  the  very  air 

Our  vassal,  giving  it  language,  till  with 

Telephonic  lips  it  calls  for  us  through 

Space,  through  soundless  distance,  bearing  our  voice, 

Its  every  tone  like  some  tangible  thing 

Of  life,  to  ears  listening  afar. 

Life  like  this  takes  hold  upon  the  Infinite, 

It  treads  the  outer  vestibule  of  God's 

Presence,  breathes  the  air  which  sweeps  around  His 

Purposes,  rests  in  the  cradle  of  His 

Providence,  and  hourly  hears  His  voice. 


CRADLED  WITH  GOD. 
(Lines  on  the  death  of  a  little  child,  1885.) 

We  call  thee  dead,  sweet  baby,  but  our  earthly  eyes  are 

blind, 

We  cannot  look  beyond  the  twinkling  star, 
Unto  the  land  with  golden  gates  ajar, 

Where  life  and  light  in  endless  glory  shine. 

Thou  art  not  dead!     Thy  little  life,  so  sweet,  so  pure,  so 
fair, 

Just  budded  here,  and  then  an  angel  came. 

We  call  him  Death — we  do  not  know  the  name 
He  bears  in  Heaven  among  the  bright  ones  there. 


He  touched  thy  lips  and  breathed  upon  thy   face  till  it 

grew  white — 

Thy  little  hands  like  folded  lilies  lay- 
On,  the  sweet  beauty  of  that  breathless  clay! 

And  then  with  him  you  vanished   from  our  sight. 

Blessed  baby !     Now  thine  eyes 
Open  wide  in  Paradise; 
And  the  loving  Savior's  breast 
Is  the  cradle  for  thv  rest. 


CHRIST  IS  BORN.     (1886.) 

The  great  world  slept,  while  the  soft,  starry  light 

Of  midnight  skies  fell  on  its  hills  and  plains. 

Upon  Judean  slopes  the  shepherds  kept 

Their  watch  of  the  great  flocks  which  roamed  through  the 

Long  months  the  hillsides  o'er,   feeding  the  juicy 

Grasses  on,  and  'mid  the  emerald  of 

The  Winter  ways,  looking  like  white  blooms  on 

The  landscape  far,  dotting  the  meadowy 

Green  with  waving  light,  or,  like  a  drift  of 

Snow,  covering  the  heights  where  sweet,  green-bladed 

Grass  turned  up  its  million  spears. 

The  night  was 

Still.     Earth  lay  as  if  expectant,  wrapped  in 
Perfect  silence,  save  the  low  murmur  of 
The  running  brook,  or  echoing  undertone 
Of  Jordan's  rushing  waters.     As  if  Earth  held  her 
Breath,  but  faintest  breezes  stirred,  just  pulsing 
The  myriad  leaves  and  wafting  faintly 
The  odorous  breath  of  flowers.     The  night-bird's  voice 
NVas  still,  his  wings  folded  'mid  the  starlit 
Trees.     The  cricket  slept,  and  all  the  countless 
Myriad  voices  of  the  night  were  hushed. 
As  neared  the  midnight,  lo !  the  shepherds  slept 
And  dreamed  of  Israel's  greatness,  dreamed  of 
Him  the  Wonderful,  their  promised  King,  whose 
Coming  should  make  free  his  chosen  people. 

In  visions  of  the  night  Jerusalem 

Was  glorious  with  His  presence,  and 

Mighty  Rome  was  trembling  at  His  power. 

Dissolved  her  conquering  armies  at  His 

Voice,  crumbled  her  thrones,  and  melted  like  dew  in 

The  warm  sunrise  her  mighty  cities.     The 

Foot  of  haughty  Roman  pressed  no  more  the 

Neck  of  Israel.     All  nations  Iwwed  the 

King  of  kings  before.     Resplendent  in  his 

Brightness,  the  glory  of  God's  chosen 

People  shone. 

O  dream  of  dreams  the  ages 
Long  had  nursed!     O  promise  glad  that  now  had 
To  its  sweet  fulfillment  come!     What  woke  the 
Shepherds   from  their  dreamy  rest?     What  stirred  their 
Pulses  to  a  quickened  throb?     What  filled  their 
Hearts  with  gladness,  all  too  full  for  speech?  their 
Eyes  with  wrapt  wonder  as  they  upward 
Lift  them  to  the  skies? 


135 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


The  darkness  flees,  the 

Skies  asunder  stand,  and  down  the  star-strewn 
Spaces  pour  the  host  of  Cherubim.     Each 
Starry  sphere  echoes  ths  angel  anthem. 
Celestial  wings  brighten  the  deeps  of  air. 
Faces  of  Seraphim  that  have  grown  bright 
Where  God's  own  glory  shines  "unhindered  and 
Undarkened  by  a  sun,"  resplendent  fill 
The  skies,  while  light,  such  as  would  put  the  noon- 
Day  Sun  in  black  eclipse,  fills  the  blue  vault 
Above. 

Then  burst  seraphic  tones  upon 
Their  ravished  ears.     "The  angel  Israfel, 
Who  hath  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's 
Creatures,"  led  there  the  heavenly  choir.     Stars 
Knelt  in  worship  as  the  cherubic  strains 
Rang  out  amid  their  spheres.     The  everlasting 
Hills  bent  low  their  heads,  and  the  uplifted 
Mountains  glowed  like  altar  fires.     The  low  winds 
Were  tuned  to  melody;  each  leaf  was  song, 
Each  blade  of  grass  breathed  full-voiced  symphony. 
Each  running  brook  took  voice  of  praise, 
And  all  the  rivers  broke  into  tumultuous 
Anthems,  and  the  billowy  seas  joined  in 
With  the  triumphant  chorus.     But  over 
All  rang  out  the  angel's  song,  "Glory  to 
God  in  the  highest,  peace  on  earth,  good  will 
Toward  men,  for  unto  you  a  Christ  is 
Born." 

"Peace  and  good  will,"  the  echoing  world 
Resounds,  "for  Christ  is  born." 

NO  PLACE  WHERE  GOD  IS  NOT.     (1886.) 

In  the  still  night  I  sat  with  self 

And  looked  to  worlds  afar, 
And  said,  "Now  climb,  O  mind!  O  thought! 

And  pass  from  star  to  star. 

"Speed,  with  thy  silent,  unseen  wing, 

To  utmost  verge  of  space; 
Traverse  the  orbit  of  the  Sun, 

The  paths  of  comets  trace. 

"Out  to  the  farthest  silent  verge 

Where  shining  planets  swing; 
Find,  if  thou  canst,  the  boundary 

Where  worldless  voids  begin. 

"Find,  if  thou  canst,  where  God  is  not, 

Where  all  is  nothingness, 
Where  sound  is  dead,  nor  motion  stirs, 

Where  never  atoms  press." 

On,  on  my  fancy  took  its  flight, 

Still  suns  on  suns  arose, 
Beyond  where  fmman  telescope 

The  starry  deeps  disclose. 

Still  on,  and  orb-crowned  firmaments 

Uprose  before  my  sight, 
And   overwhelming  amplitudes 

The  suns  and  planets  light. 


Ellipses  endless  sweep  away 

Round  which  the  planets  spin; 
Still  sounds  the  music  of  the  spheres, 

As  stars  together  sing. 

Millions  of  ages  bear  me  on 

With  flight  as  swift  as  light, 
But  still  the  star-sown  space  is  spread 

Far  out  before  my  sight. 

Ah,  soul!  forever  on  and  on 

Might  speed  the  wings  of  Thought, 

But  still  no  frontier  would  be  found, 
No  point  where  God  is  not. 

THE  IMMORTAL  PATHWAY.     (1886.) 

I  see  a  pathway  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 

A  pathway  that  hath  been  hewn  all  silently 

And  paved  with  clouds  by  sojne  air-force  unseen. 

And  stretched  through  heaven  its  farthest  poles  between. 

My  thoughts  o'ertravel  it  and  take  their  course 

With  the  wild  eagle  who  rushed  screaming  hoarse 

From  the  far  cliff,  his  strong  gaze  sunward  turned 

As  he  could  pass  beyond  this  lesser  world 

To  the  Sun's  front,  or  to  the  light-hid  stars 

Which  twinkle  downward  through  Night's  purple  bars, 

Cutting  the  gloom  with  silvery  javelins, 

Straight-lined    from   heaven,   down  which  some  influence 

springs 

As  spirit  flashed,  that  touches  to  the  deep 
Of  our  own  souls,  until  they  rise  and  climb 
Like  the  high-tide  that  seeks  the  full  moonshine, 
And  for  this  deep  mysterious  teaching  seek, 
Drawn  upward  to  a  purer  sense  of  being. 
Seeing  not  with  sight,  but  with  the  spirit  seeing; 
With  that  large  insight  of  the  open  soul 
Which  sometimes,  seemingly,  doth  grasp  the  whole 
Of  God's  great  universe,  till  man  seems  the  larger  part 
Of  God's  creation — the  central,  throbbing  heart, 
With  no  hand  on  its  pulse  but  God's  own,  thrust 
Through  all  its  humanness,  crushing  its  dust 
Of  sordidness,  until  it  feels  the  thrill 
Of  all  the  infinite  that  lieth  still 

About  it  everywhere,  from  star  and  sky  and  boundless  sea, 
And  the  vast  round  Earth's  immensity. 

FALSEHOOD.     (1890.) 

Lo!  Satan  trod  the  mighty  spaces  dim, 
And  mused  with  longing  in  his  heart  to  bring 
Man  to  hell's  level,  and  to  find  some  way 
To  lead  the  race  from  highest  good  away. 
Plotted  he  vainly  till  before  him  there 
Foul  Falsehood  stood,  a  blot  upon  the  air. 

Then  all  the  air  grew  sulphurous  with  his  smile, 

And  lowest  Hell  paused,  listening  the  while 

'I  hat  Falsehood  spoke,  and  told  in  fairest  speech 

How  she  would  tempt  men,  leading  all  and  each 

To  harbor  her  with  flattery  and  vain  lies 

Which  she  would  clothe  in  such  a  winning  guise 

They  quick  would  seize  them,  till  each  conscience,  deed 


136 


The  Triune  God. 


With  her  quick  stabs,  could  any  way  be  led, 
And   Truth,  oft   wounded,  would   withdraw  afar, 
And  leave  behind  her  not  a  single  bar 
'Twixt  them  and  wrong. 

Then    Satan's   mighty   head 
He  bent  in  gladness — "It  is  well,"  he  said, 
"O  Falsehood!  thou  shalt  be  the  adjutant  of  Hell. 
Fly  earthward  swift  and  there  henceforth  dwell." 

THE  TRIUNE  GOD*     (1887.) 

How  can   I  of  the  unconditioned  reason? 
What  notion  hath  my  understanding  of 
It  save  as  negation  vast  of  the 
Conditioned?     Yet   consciousness  premises 
It,  and  reason  holds  it  fast  as  truth 
Positive,   truth    apprehended   and 
Perceived,  while  yet  beyond  the  full  grasp  of 
Our  finite  comprehension.     Yet  bid  me 
Prove  that  I  the  infinite  can  conceive 
Of  as  a  thing  positive,  a  something 
Possible,  and  argument  is  dumb;  she 
Hath  no  words  to  show  through  speech  of 
Logical  deduction  the  modus 
Operandi  of  her  thought.     I   only 
Say  my  consciousness  attesteth  this,   for 
Of  my  consciousnes  it  is  fact  ultimate; 
Therefore,  as  well  might  you  bid  me  to 
Ascertain  "What  is  it  that  precedes  the 
First,"  or  what  supports  the  firm  foundation, 
As  to  make  plain  to  you  the  process  of 
My   knowing. 

Vainly  the  finite  seeks  to 
Span  the  infinite,  and  dark  the  way  it 
Wanders,  until  lost  to  all  thought  save  the 
O'erwhelming  one  that  at  the  end  of  what 
We  know  lies  something  more  that  we  know  not. 
On  this  far  frontier  shall  we  stand  and  reach 

•Referring  to  a  sermon  preached  in  Los  Angeles  on  January 
9,  188T: 

"Reason  is  not  competent  to  the  discovery  of  all  religious 
truth;  at  the  same  time  no  truth  can  be  repugnant  to  the 
essential  laws  of  thought,  or  is  clearly  and  self-evidently  un 
thinkable.  This  is  axiomatic.  Xow  apply  this  principle  to  a 
doctrine  widely  held  to  be  the  chief  corner-stone  of  the  Chris 
tian  religion,  indeed  its  acceptance  to  be  the  condition  of  sal 
vation,  viz:  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  Is  it  even  unthink 
able?  ...  It  is  an  essential  part  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity  that  the  omnipotent,  omniscient  and  omnipresent  God, 
the  creator  and  upholder  of  all  things,  He  whose  creative  wis 
dom,  iirecting  power  and  personal  presence  in  each  of  the 
innumerable  worlds  throughout  this  boundless  sea  of  space — 
in  that  burning  sun  whose  light,  traveling  at  the  rate  of 
nearly  200,000  miles  per  second,  has  not  yet  reached  our  world, 
are  as  necessary  as  they  are  here;  He  whose  center  is  every 
where,  and  whose  circumference  is  nowhere,  who,  as  the 
Apostle  says,  is  above  all,  and  through  all  and  in  all,  with 
drew  from  all  of  the  other  portions  of  His  universe  and  so 
concentrated  Himself,  so  focalized  His  being,  so  divested  Him 
self  of  the  very  attributes  of  His  nature,  the  essential  ele 
ments  of  His  godhead,  as  on  this  mote  in  the  air  to  be  born 
a  human  child,  through  the  usual  process  of  growth  to  be 
come  a  man,  to  be  baptized— think  of  it!  (according  to  this 
doctrine,  John  the  Baptist  baptized  the  infinite  and  Illimitable 
God,)  to  be  Insulted  as  a  religious  innovator,  and  finally 
crucified.  Ten  thousand  thousand  thousand  times  it  has  been 
declared  that  Christ  was  truly  and  properly  God!  that  in 
the  form  of  a  man  the  infinite  Jehovah  sojourned  on  the  earth, 
and  yet  by  general  consent  He  was  crucified  and  laid  in  tho 
tomb;  and  this  to  recover  as  much  as  possible  from  the  fright 
ful,  the  overwhelming  disaster  occasioned  by  His  own  circum 
vention  by  the  devil— a  being  whom  He  Himself  created.  Now, 
If  this  whole  general  scheme  Is  not  a  downright,  out-and-out 
absurdity,  will  any  man  tell  me  what  an  absurdity  is?" 


No  farther?     As  we  feel  the  infinite 

Beyond  us  and  above  o'ershadowing 

Us,  like  God's  spirit  o'er  wide  Chaos  brooding, 

Shall  we  turn  backward  feeling  all  effort 

Vain  for  the  mind  to  further  strive?     Shall  we 

Grovel  in  the  finite,  saying  all  beyond 

Is  dark,  unknowable?     No!  there  is  still 

A  pathway  we  may  tread,  leading  the  mind 

To  where  it  may  o'erleap  the  finite. 

Following  this  path,  no  limitless 

Abstraction  do  we  vainly  seek  to  grasp, 

Xor  do  we  to  no  vast  unclothed  infinity 

Outreach,  at  which  the  mind  is  staggered;  but 

Here  we  may  lay  hold  of  personal 

Infinity,   all   clothed   in   gracious 

Attributes,  boundless  in  love  and  mercy, 

Unlimited  in  all  things,  omnipotent 

And  omnipresent,  filling  heaven  and 

Earth,  and  through  Him  we  truly  may  conceive 

The  limitless,  e'en  as  we  apprehend 

The  boundless  sky,  which  we  but  see  in  part, 

While  its  far  bounds  are  set  beyond  our 

Utmost  vision.     Comprehend  we  may  not, 

But  we  may  humbly  know  and  worship  God, 

Infinite  and  eternal,  seeing  him, 

The  invisible,  through  far-visioned  faith, 

Not  face  to  face,  with  full  sight  comprehensive, 

But  "as  through  a  glass  darkly."     Meanwhile  our 

Consciousness,  with  still,  deep  voice,  which  naught  can 

Hinder,  naught  can  hush,  proclaims  God  is,  and 

Him  conceives  of  as  the  Eternal, 

Unconditioned  Cause  of  all  things.     Thus,  that 

God  is  we  know,  and  knowing  we  may  read 

Of  Him.     The  star-sown  skies  in  shining 

Alphabet  write  of  creative  power; 

The  mighty  mountains  voice  omnipotence, 

And  the  wide  sea,  in  never-resting  waves, 

Activity  eternal  does  proclaim. 

While  the  round  Earth,  set  'mid  the  starry  spheres, 

Circling  through  space  illimitable,  speaks 

Of  infinitude. 

Yet  still  how  weak  our 

Cognizance,  how  small  our  knowledge  of  the 
Eternal  One.     Eternity  may  shed 
Its  dews  of  knowledge  on  us,  and  the  light 
Of  God's  presence  shine  around  us  there, 
"Unhindered  and  undarkened  by  a  sun," 
Refulgent  in  its  glory,  and  we  may 
Rise  from  throne  to  throne  of  higher  heaven; 
But  still  above  us,  o'ershadowing  the 
Universe,  and  holding  in  His  hand  stars, 
Suns  and  systems,  and  shaping  by  His 
Universal   will  all   life,  all  law,  sits 
The  Eternal,  while  all  the  hosts  of  heaven 
Veil  with  their  shining  wings  their  faces  from 
His  sight,  bending  in  worship. 

But  while  with 

Winged  sweep  the  ages  roll  through  the  bright 
Effulgence  of  eternal  years,  God's  works 
And  wavs  shall  we  essay  to  know,  yet 


137 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


Vainly  strive  to  compass.    Our  light  will  be 

Like  shadow  to  His  light,  and  all  our  knowledge 

Be  to  His  as  is  the  dewdrop  to  the 

Ocean  vast.     In  all  eternity  there  is 

No  mighty  Pisgah  for  our  thought  to 

Climb,  where  we  may  stand  o'erlooking  the  wide 

Sweep  of  Infinite  Intelligence  and 

Of  Eternal  Purpose,  and  proclaim  no 

Higher  knowledge  lies  beyond  us  to  attain. 

Like  the  stray  particles  of  light  which  God's 

Hand  takes  up  and  fashions  into  starry 

Spheres,  so  shall  we  take  up  knowledge,  yet  not 

Absorb  it  all,  no  more  than  all  the  worlds 

Of  myriad  stars  consume  the  brightness 

Of  the  effulgent  Sun,  or  equal  it 

In  glory.     As  well  might  we  seek  infinite 

Space  to  span  with  our  small  fingers,  or  cast 

The  plumb-line  of  our  thought  to  measure  its 

Far  deeps  where  not  an  atom  floats,  where  stars 

Cease  circling  in  its  worldless  void.     With 

Reverent  hands,  and  faces  filled  with  holy 

Awe  and  wonder,  shall  man  redeemed  turn 

The  vast  volumed  pages  of  His  Providence 

And  power,  and  find  still  ever  added 

Pages  through  eternal  years,  and,  kneeling, 

Worship   in   o'erwhelming   adoration, 

Feeling  to  old  Eternity  sublimer 

Bliss  in  knowledge  gained,  while  still  upborne  by 

Winged  Progression  to  high  and  higher  heights 

Unending,  where  God  more  of  Himself  reveals. 

How  then,  O  feeble  child  of  Time!  conditioned 

As  thou  art,  and  thick-hedged  round  with  mortal 

Hindrances,  thy  vision  darkened,  seeing 

But  in  part,  dost  thou  with  feeble  voice 

Proclaim  God  is  not  what  His  own  Word  declares — 

The  Triune  One!  the  Christ  who  walked  with  Adam 

In  the  pleasant  shade  of  Eden's  garden, 

Who  trod  the  fiery  furnace  with  the 

Faithful  three  of  Israel's  sons,  and  who 

With  Abraham,  of  faithful  souls  the 

Father,  on  Mamre's  plains  talked  face  to  face, 

Discoursing  of  His  purpose  toward  wicked 

Sodom,  and  who  from  Manoah's  startled 

Sight  uprose  to  heaven  on  flaming  pathway. 

Wilt  thou  deny  because  the  mystery 

Of  the  godhead  is  beyond  thee?     Is  this 

The  daring  yet  unspoken  language  of 

The  thought:  "God  cannot  be  beyond  what  man 

Can  think.     Reason  no  such  Being  complicate 

Can  understand,  and  therefore  it  is  not?" 

And,  questioning  farther  still,  doth  say,  "How 

Could  the  Almighty  thus  withdraw  Himself 

From  this  wide  universe,  and  clothed  in  flesh, 

Tread  earthly   fields  through  many-changing  years? 

And  how  can  God  be  God,  the  Father  and 

Yet  Son  Divine,  eternal?" 

Canst  thou  explain  what  God  is,  or  set  in 
Jeweled  language  how  He  no  beginning 
Hath,  vet  is  and  was  and  shall  be?     Or  when 


He  on  awful   Sinai  stood,   His 

Feet  shod  with  earthquakes,  until  the  smoking 

Mount  cried  out  in  thunders,  while  He  with  His 

Meek  servant  Moses  talked,  and  saw  the  Dawn 

And  close  of  forty  earthly  days,  as  He, 

Jehovah,  communed  with  him  there,  how  still 

He  held  sway  in  heaven,  and  by  the  forces 

Of  His  mighty  will  kept  all  the  star-spangled 

Universe  circling  through  space,  each  sun  and 

System    revolving   round   its   center? 

Was  heaven  meanwhile  unlighted  by  His 

Glory?     Did  all  the  angelic  hosts  in 

Silence,  soundless  and  profound,  stand 

Speechless,  and  hell  itself  rejoice  that  for 

The  time  God's  presence  was  not  felt  where  Hate 

Rebelled  against  its  power?     Did  he,  the 

Humble  Gallilean,  speak  but  in  bold 

Assumption  when  He  himself  as  "from 

Above"  proclaimed,  while  men  "are  from 

Beneath," 

And  bade  them  with  His  voice,  "Come  unto  me?" 

Was  it  as  man  the  prophets  spake  of  Him 

When  crying  in  the  wilderness,  as  herald 

Of  the  Christ,  he  of  Him  said:     "The  Lamb  of 

God  behold,  who  taketh  the  world's  sins  away?" 

Or  was  it  but  a  human  soul  that  passed 

From  cross-crowned  Calvary    when  the  Earth  was 

Rent  in  horror,  and  from  the  opened  graves 

The  dead  came  forth,  and  the  Sun  hid  its  face 

Above  the  Crucified? 

O  world  without  a  Saviour !     The  sin-burdened 

Soul  shrinks  from  the  thought.     But  all  the  ages 

Down,  in  symphony  as  sweet  as  heaven's 

Music,  swept  from  the  harps  of  high  archangels, 

Sounds  the  Christ-voice  to  fainting  souls: 

"Ye  believe  in  God — believe  also  in  Me." 


BEYOND.     (1887.) 

Life's  noon  has  come,  and  in  its  glare, 

When  all  the  world  stands  scarred  and  white, 

I  turn  and  look  unto  the  light. 

But  not  to  gold  of  morning  skies, 

When  life  was  young  and  fair; 

When  cradled  in  its  clear  sunrise 

I  saw  before  me  there 

Long  plains  of  years,  while  golden  dreams 

Of  days  to  come  made  days  more  fair; 

While   Hope's   glad   sunshine   everywhere 

Made  shadowless  the  perfect  day. 

Not  backward  do  I  turn  at  noon 

To  the  sweet  dawns  of  yesterdays, 

To  singing-birds  and  flower-strewn  ways, 

With  dewy  paths  and  hedges  green; 

But  forward  through  the  shadowed  scene 

Where  Sunset's  slanting  beams  are  shed, 

And  there  with  longing  fix  my  eyes 

Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  plain. 

For  there,  beyond  the  sunset  skies, 

Faith  sees  bright  gleams  of  glory  shine, 


138 


"Lo!  I  Am  With  Thee  Alvay." 


She  sets  the  golden  gates  ajar 
That   rise  beyond  the  shadow's  pale, 
And  sees  the  glory  shining  through — 
The  light  that  is  of  sun  nor  star; 
And  then  I  say  good-night  to  Care, 
And  Doubt  is  chained,  and  life  is  fair. 


THE  SABBATH.     (1890.) 

O  blue  sky!  ye  brighter  seem  today 
Than  other  days  as  ye  above  us  bend, 
And  sweeter  blow  the  breezes  which  do  lend 

Such  comfort  to  us  on  their  winged  way. 

Ye  are  as  fair  as  when  o'er  Eden's  bloom 
The  Sun  stole  up  the  amber  heights  of  Dawn, 
And  God's  own  voice  spake  through  the  golden  Morn, 

And  blessed  the  Day— to  man  His  richest  boon. 

O  day  of  rest  f  thy  hallowed  hours  we  love, 
Serenely  breathing.     Labor   folds  her  hands, 
And  tyrant  Toil  with  lash  no  longer  stands; 

Peace  broods  above  us  like  a  white-winged  dove. 

O  day  of  rest!     O  day  that  leads  us  home! 
Eden  yet  lingers  in  your  blessed  hours, 
And  Hope  unfolds  afresh  her  fragrant  flowers, 

Heaven  nearer  draws  and  angels  whisper  "Come!" 

Earth's  cares  and  turmoil  sink  from  us  away; 

The  soul  hath  larger  vision  and  it  sees 

Life  broadening  into  wide  eternities 
Of  sacred  joy  and  everlasting  day. 


HIS  WAYS.     (T89i.) 

God's  ways  are  not  our  ways,  and  dim  and  dark 
Sometimes  they  seem,  and  sorrow-filled, 
As  if  all  joy  had  died,  and  Grief  distilled 
Her  tears  in  liquid  fire.     Then,  then,  O  hark! 
God  speaks!     Be  not  afraid,  my  child, 
Though  tempests  rave  and  storms  break  wild; 
For  I  am  near,  behind  the  sullen  dark, 
My  hand  upon  the  helm,  I  guide  thy  bark. 


"LO!   I  AM  WITH  THEE  ALWAY."     (1891.) 

The  Master's  work  was  done — complete  and   f;iir 

As  is  a  rounded  star  or  shining  sun, 
His  earth-life  shone,  and  everywhere 

Earth's    thousand    tongues,  seemed    whispering,    "Well 

done!" 
The  flowers  breathed  sweeter  incense  where  He  stood, 

The  rivers  caught  an  undertone  of  song, 
The  wind  breathed  softer  in  the  sighing  wood, 

The  palms  seemed  bearing  yet   His  praise  along; 
And  round  the  open  grave  where  He  had  lain 

A  glory  lingered  that  was  not  of  earth, 
For  vanquished  Death  lay  there,  and  slain 

Were  Fear  and  Doubt — celestial  Hope  had  birth. 


O  land  so  fair!  here  had  the  angels  sung 

Of  peace,  good  will  to  men;  upon  these  hills 
The  star  had  shone,  the  blessed  day  begun 

Beside   Judea's   softly-flowing   rills. 
Here  He,  a  lowly  babe  in  Bethlehem, 

Slept  in  a  manger,  all  his  godhood  hid 
Beneath  the  flesh,  as  thus  He  came  to  them, 

His   face  so  flower-like,  each  tender  lid 
Shutting  the  light  from  out  His  sleeping  eyes 

Through  which  His  soul  looked  in  divinest  calm, 
As  does  the  Moon  from  out  the  mklnight  skies. 

His  presence  brought  but  blessedness  and  balm, 
And  the  sad  Earth  turned  once  again  its  face 

Toward  sinless  Eden,  and  Heaven  nearer  drew, 
And  looking  upward,  lo!  our  sinful  race 

Drank  Hope's  sweet  wine  as  Summer  drinks  the  dew. 
But  as  He  older  grew,  beside  Him  walked 

Sorrow  and  weariness  and   earthly  scorn, 
And  of   His   deeds   so  slightingly  had  talked 

High  priest  and  Pharisee,  and  oft  the  Morn 
Looking  between  its  shining  bars  of  gold 

Had  seen  Him  in  some  desert  place  apart, 
Bearing  the  sins  of  all  the  races  old 

Like  a  sharp  arrow  in  His  bleeding  heart. 

But  still  He  loved  men,  and  the  dead  he  raised, 

The  leper  healed,  the  blind  gave  sight  again, 
The  lame  leaped  in  their  gladness  while  they  praised 

And  held  Him  highest  of  the  sons  of  men. 
The  storied  palms  had  heard  his  gracious  speech, 

And  olive  trees  had  listened  as  He  spake, 
"O  deaf  ears,  hear!  let  full  sound  come  to  each; 

O  dead,  who  sleep,  arise  ye  and  awake!" 
But  still  for  Him  had  come  the  Cross,  the  tomb, 

From   His  dead  palm   He  let  life's  scepter  fall 
Ere  He  had  reached  His  manhood's  early  noon, 

And  Earth  was  rent  as  for  His  funeral  pall. 

But  He  had  risen !  and  now  toward  Bethany, 

Past  gardens  fair  with  oleander's  bloom, 
Past  swaying  vines  and  sweet  pomegranate  tree, 

And  olive  groves,  and  where  the  palms  make  room 
For  the  soft  sighing  of  the  warm  south  wind, 

Climbing  the  steeps  of  Olivet,  He  walked 
With  His  disciples,  and  He  called  to  mind 

All  prophets  had  foretold  of  Him,  and  talked 
So  tenderly  of  Heaven's  great  love  for  men — 

The  many  millions  living  everywhere, 
The  many  millions  that  His  heavenly  ken, 

Sweeping  the  future  as  it  opened  there, 
Before  His  sight,  saw  down  the  years  of  Time, 

Peopling  the  green  Earth,  breathing  its  sweet  air, 
Some  following  Him  and  living  lives  sublime, 

Some  wandering  with  heavy  loads  of  care, 
Worshiping  earth  idols — things  dumb  and  cold, 

As  they  could  make  their  sinful  lives  more  fair 
Or  lift  them  upward  to  Heaven's  blessed  fold. 

And  there  beneath  the  shining  sky  He  stood 
Lifting  His  hands  which  yet  the  nail-prints  bore, 


139 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


-The  cruel  nails  that  held  them  to  the  wood — 
Those  holy  hands,  so  blessed  evermore ! 

His  face  was  like  the  Sun  in  shining— clear 
As  the  starry  midnight  were  His  wondrous  eyes; 

They  mirrored  Heaven,  as  we,  when  drawing  near, 
See  waters  mirror  all  the  bending  skies. 

O  voice  divine!  the  winds  grew  hushed  and  still, 

Breathing  but  balm  amid  the  olive  trees 
And  the  cool  palms  upon  the  holy  hill. 

Never  before  heard  Earth  such  words  as  these 
That  Jesus  spake  upon  that  blessed  height 

To  His  disciples  standing  with  wrapt  eyes 
Drinking  His  speech  as  Day  does  drink  the  light 

When  Dawn  unbars  the  gold  within  its  skies. 
The  little  town  upon  the  hill  was  nigh, 

And  Zion's  towers,  resplendent  in  the  Sun, 
But  no  white  angels  flashed  into  the  sky, 

Filling  the  heavens,  as  when  His  life  begun; 
His  presence  was  enough;  Earth  knew  her  King, 

The  waiting  heavens  on  trembling  hinges  hung; 
The  sleeping  stars  with  a  strange  thrill  were  waking, 

And  heavenly  harps  to  higher  strains  were  strung. 

Sweet  as  the  voice  of  rivers  in  the  Spring 
To  the  dry  Earth,  dear  as  to  Night  its  stars 

The  words  He  spake  unto  those  listening, 
And  also  unto  us— no  long  time  bars 

Our  hearts  from  Him,  no  centuries  stay 
The  sunlight  of  His  presence  and  His  grace: 

"For  lo!"     He  said,  "I   am  with  you  alway, 
Though  ye  may  not  behold  me  face  to  face." 

O  Presence  sweet!  our  waiting  ears  are  glad; 

Xo  words  outblown  from  the  far,  starry  spheres, 
If  their  pure  speech  could  on  this  Earth  be  had, 

Could  stir  us  so  as  these  which  through  the  years— 
The  long,  long  years  of  blessed  Christendom- 
Come  thus  hope-laden  to  us,  breathing  still, 
As  flowers  breathe  of  the  Sun,  as  stars  of  light— 

Of  Christ  with  us  to  work  His  holy  will— 
His  love  with  us  as  we  go  forth  to  bear, 

As  He  did  bid  us  tidings  of  His  grace, 
Blessing  us  always,  with  us  everywhere, 

Our  hearts  His  temple  and  His  dwelling  place. 
O  blessed  Christ!  shall  e'er  our  footsteps  stray, 

Our  hearts  be  slow  to  do  Thy  bidding  here, 
When  Thou  hast  said,  "I  am  with  thee  alway, 

And  what  is  dark  my  love  shall  yet  make  clear." 


ALL  IS  WELL.     (1891.) 

The  dim,  dark  shadows  lie  asleep 
Upon  the  kills,  upon  the  sky, 
As  sails  the  low  Moon's  crescent  by 

Upon  the  West's  far,  starlit  deep. 

O  starry  isles,  how  far  ye  seem! 

And  yet  how  bright  and  shining  clear, 
As  if  Heaven's  golden  sands  were  near, 

As  if  its  sun  did  on  you  beam. 


O  twinkling,  starry  isles  of  light ! 

Do  pain  and  sorrow  haunt  your  shores, 


, 

Have  Death  and  Silence  open  doors 
ough  which  your  loved  ones  pass  from  sight? 


Do  pai 
Have  ] 
Through  which  your 

Do  weary  hearts  throb  'neath  your  skies, 
Loving  yet  unloved,  do  they  beat 
With  heavy  longing   for  the   sweet 

Still  slumber  that  the  grave  supplies? 

I  do  not  know,  I  cannot  tell, 

No  voice  the  starry  silence  stirs, 
Though  bend  in  prayer  the  swaying  firs, 

Faith  only  whispers,  "All  is  well!" 

OUR  UNSEEING  EYES.     (1892.) 

We  talk  of  marvels  that  our  eyes  have  seen; 

Of  world-old  pyramids  defying  Time; 

The  gray  and  sad-eyed  Sphinx  with  stony  gaze, 

Looking  the  bleached  sands  of  the  desert  wastes 

Across;  of  Memnon,  who,  with  each  rosy 

Morn's  first  kiss  of  light,  breaks  that  deep  spell  of 

Silence  to  breathe  one  strain  of  melody 

Into  the  ear  of  the  young  Day,  waking 

Within  the  cradled  gold  of  Sunrise; 

Of  mighty  Alps,  the  throne  of  rushing  winds 

And  awful  avalanche — mountains  the  stars 

Companion  with,  and  which  know  the  mystery 

Of  the  upper  air;  of  the  dread  thunders  with 

Cloudy  hands  beating  against  the  stars — 

Sentinel  heights,  moveless  in  majesty. 

We  talk  of  leaping,  foam-lipped  cataracts 

Pouring  the  mad  anthems  of  their  watery 

Tides,  and  of  great  surging  seas  with  billows 

Bellowing  to  the  storm,  as  if  afar 

Our  steps  must  pass  to  behold  Earth's  wonders. 

O  blind !  for  our  eyes  are  hid  from  seeing, 

We  note  not  where  God  walks,  nor  where  His  hand, 

Under  our  very  feet,  before  our  eyes, 

Works  daily  miracle.     This  tiny  blade 

Of  grass;  this  opening  flower;  this  perfect 

Leaf  are  marvels  wondrous.     This  tall  tree 

Half  heavenward  lifted,  catching  the  light 

Among  its  boughs,  its  leaves  burnished  with  gold, 

And  answering  to  the  kiss  of  the  soft  breeze 

With  tremulous  whispering,  is  God's  thought 

Made  manifest.     The  color  of  the  rose; 

The  fragrant  purple  of  the  violet; 

The  whiteness  of  the  perfect  lily's  bloom, 

And  the  sweet  gaze  of  pansies  looking  up; 

The  morning-glory's  bells  swung  on  the  vine, 

Hanging  'twixt  Earth  and  Heaven,  as  waiting 

The  touch  of  angels  to  ring  celestial 

Melodies ;  the  perfect  painting  of  the  gay 

Poinsettia's  leaf,  glowing  as  the  sunset; 

The  lotus,  dreaming  by  its  sleeping  tides; 

The  pink,  rosy  as  the  cheek  of  beauty; 

The  orange  when  its  buds  do  burst 

Into  a  rhythm  of  glad  fragrance  sweet; 


140 


The  I'nxpoken  My  uteri). 


The  purple  of  the  heliotrope,  with 
Breath  like  the  frankincense  burned  on  altars 
Old;  the  varied  bloom,  like  that  which  blazing 
Shines  in  the  fire-opals  of  the   far-off 
Orient,  seen  'mid  the  many  hundred 
Petals  gay  of  that  proud  flower  which  blooms 
Through  the  long  months  of  Autumn-time; 
The  green  and  lace-like  fern  delicately 
Wrought,  each  hair-like  line  filled  with  perfection- 
All  these  are  marvels  we  oft  fail  to  note, 
Though  thick  as  golden  sunbeams  round  us  spread. 

0  the  mystery  of  Growth!  of  color 

And  of  form !     Soundless  the  little  blades  creep 

Up  and  lengthen  day  by  day;  noiselessly 

Does  the  rose  unfold  its  tiny  bud  and  burst 

Into  full  flower.     Silently  the  tree 

Springs  from  the  soil,  uplooking  to  the  clouds, 

And  the  green  leaf  unfolds  unto  the  light, 

And  round  us  everywhere  the  miracle 

Of  growth  expands  without  our  heeding  it. 

Truly,  O  brothers !  are  we  not  blind  indeed  ? 

THE  UNSPOKEN  MYSTERY.     (1892.) 

Life  wrapped  me  round  so  full,  so  deep,  so  fair, 
Yet  being's  mystery  touched  me  everywhere. 

1  sought  the  secret  which  the  rose  might  tell, 
But  not  a  whisper  from  its  petals  fell. 

biience  wrapped  all  the  solemn  mountains  round, 
Their  rock-hewn  lips  held  neither  breath  nor  sound. 

The  blue  sky  smiled  and  showed  a  deeper  blue, 
Yet  golden  sunbeams  filtered  speechless  through. 

The  starlight  voiceless  fell  through  Night's  vast  deep, 
And  dews  wept  tears,  but  still  did  silence  keep. 

I  asked  the  Wind  then  rushing  wild  and  free, 
Shaking  the  land  and  ploughing  up  the  Sea: 

O  Wind!  sky-born,  in  all  the  deeps  of  air, 
Where  is  the  genesis  of  being,  where? 

The  great  Sea  crept  along  the  beach  sands  white, 
And  the  wild  winds  sank  moaning  through  the  Night 

A  little  babe  cooed  softly  in  my  arms, 
Flower-like  and  sweet  its  many  budding  charms, 

And  from  its  eyes  the  soul's  light,  gleaming  clear, 
Seemed  radiance  of  some  unknown  atmosphere. 

O  pure,  white  soul !  so  lately  come  to  earth, 
Tell  me  the  mystery  of  Being's  birth. 

The  baby  smiled,  lifted  its  starry  eyes, 
But  language  had  not  for  it  sweet  replies. 

But  still  the  secret  of  its  life  it  spoke 

In  every  smile  that  'neath  its  eyelids  woke. 

God's  touch  was  there,  the  Infinite,  the  Great 
Maker  of  life,  and  mightier  than  Fate, 

His  breath  is  life,  He  speaks,  and  lo!  we  are, 
And  so  is  Earth,  and  Sun,  and  shining  Star. 


"FAITH  CROWNED  MY  SOUL  AT  LAST."     (1897.) 

Into  the  vast  of  Silence  passed  I,  where 

Is  naught  but  mystery;  God  alone  is  there — 

And  light,  for  He  is  Light — and  worlds  unborn, 

And  space  that  hath  not  looked  at  any  morn 

With  earth-light  on  it;  so  far,  so  far 

That  the  clear  shining  of  Earth's  farthest  star 

Would  darken  ere  its  light  had  passed 

Through  the  wide  circle  of  that  boundless  Vast. 

And  there  I  stood,  a  mote,  an  atom  small, 

Within  the  center  of  that  wondrous  all 

Of  space;  vast  spheres  in  their  wide  orbits  sped. 

And  Time  grew  pulseless  till  itself  was  dead. 

Yet  unafraivl  I  stood,  stood  smiling  there, 

Feeling  that  God  was  near,  that  ev'rywhere, 

Above  the  darkness  and  the  empty  wild 

His  presence  was,  His  eye  upon  His  child. 

And  lo!  at  length,  with  firm,  uplifted  eye, 

I  saw  the  glory  of  His  smile  pass  by, 

And  all  the  darkness  brightened  silently; 

And  wijigs  of  light  bore  up  my  soul  afar, 

Beyond  the  outpost  of  Time's  farthest  star. 

Wide  oped  the  gates  of  Bliss,  their  threshold  passed, 

With  sinless  life  Faith  crowned  my  soul  at  last. 

My  Father  greets  me  there,  "and  I  am  I," 

To.be  forever,  nevermore  to  die, 

Sealed  with  the  seal  of  God's  eternity. 


MY  UNKNOWN  SELF.     (1899.) 

I  do  not  know  myself,  unfathomed,  I 

Live  on  from  day  to  day,  my  destiny 

To  be  forever.     Oh,  when  shall  I  unfold 

Some  knowledge  of  myself,  when  shall  be  told 

What  God  knows  of  me— of  that  soul 

Which  makes  the  I  of  me,  which  is  the  goal 

Of  my  self-seeking.    God  is  and  I  am, 

Spark  of  His  being  I,  from  Him  I  sprang, 

For  God  is  life  and  light,  and  boundlessly 

He  is,  and  was,  and  shall  be,  filling  space, 

The  omnipresent  One  from  whose  great  face 

No  soul  can  flee.     Oh,  what  is  Mind,  what  lies 

In  the  vast  chamber  of  its  mysteries? 

Dull,  soulless  matter  holds  not  any  seed 

Of  human  thought.     It  does  not  ever  breed 

Or  hope  or  fear  or  aspiration  high, 

Or  dream  of  life  or  ceaseless  destiny. 

'Tis  th'  God-nature  in  me  that  makes  me  rise, 

Seeking  to  know  all  being's  mysteries; 

That  giveth  thought  unto  the  senseless  clay. 

God-fashioned  and  mind-clothed,  and  which  alway 

Outreacheth  upward,  which  at  last  shall  spring 

O'er  Death's  great  border  and  take  living  wing 

Into  God's  presence,  always  for  aye  to  be 

Kindred  with  Thee,  Spirit-immensity. 

'Twas  some  of  Thine  own  life  which  Thou  didst  breathe 

Into  the  form  Thou  fashioned  and  didst  weave 

In  new-created  Man  a  living  soul, 

The  highest  link  between  Thee  and  the  whole 

Of  Earth.     Man,  Spirit,  God: 


141 


The  Undiscovered  Country. 


This  the  great  chain  of  being.     No  more  shall  plod, 

Like  a  mere  worm  of  dust,  this  soul  of  mine, 

As  I  perceive  my  being  is  like  Thine. 

Father  of  all,  Thy  child,  I  cling  to  Thee, 

Born  of  Thy  life,  breath  of  Infinity ! 

When  time  shall  cease,  and  sun  and  stars  shall  pale 

Before  Thy  greater  glory,  I  shall  exhale 

The  last  of  earthliness,  the  last  that  dies, 

And  unto  endless,  godlike  being  rise. 

Millions  on  millions  shall  the  years  pass  by, 

Yet  still  unfolding,  growing  still  am  I. 

What  measures  for  my  spirit  can  I  know, 

When  there's  no  goal  where  I  shall  cease  to  grow? 

Ceaseless,  Infinite  and  Eternal  Thou! 

Finite,  and  yet  undying  I,  I  bow, 

The  shadow  of  Thyself,  O  God,  to  Thee, 

Creator,  Father,  blessed  Deity! 

The  effluence  of  Thy  life  pervading  mine 

Until  it  grows  more  fully  like  to  Thine, 

And  each  day,  Father,  nearer  unto  Thee 

My  soul  shall  rise  throughout  eternity. 


THE  BETTER  LAND.     (1901.) 

I  float  a-down  the  tide  of  passing  hours, 

And  Time  bends  o'er  me  with  a  smiling  face, 

And  strews  beside  me  Hope's  most  fragrant  flowers, 
On  every  shining  wave  they  find  a  place. 

There  is  no  shadow  in  the  azure  skies, 
As  I  drift  nearer  to  the  golden  West, 

And  black-winged  Doubt  afar  most  quickly  flies, 
While  Faith's  bright  pinions  o'er  my  bark  do  rest. 

Beyond  the  West,  beyond  Time's  tidal  deeps, 
Fair  shores  of  bliss  beyond  my  dim  sight  lie, 

But  Faith  upholds  them,  and  her  vision  sweeps 
The  boundless  realms  of  Immortality. 

And  God  is  there,  and  friends  passed  on  before, 
And  Joy's  white  wings  above  its  vales  are  spread; 

Life  there  is  deathless,  love  forever  more 
In  radiant  fullness  is  unceasing  shed. 

O  blessed  land !  home  of  the  soul  above, 
No  night  is  there,  no  sorrow,  pain  or  sin ; 

The  key  of  Jesus'  own  forgiving  love 

Unlocks  thy  gates,  and  He  will  lead  us  in. 


CHRIST  THE  LIFE.     (1904.) 

The  morning  of  my  earth-life,  O  how  far 
Lies  it  behind  me;  past  my  noon  am  I, 
When  golden  shines*the  Sun  within  the  sky; 

I  near  the  hour  when  shines  the  Evening  Star. 

Yet  morning  lies  beyond— the  better  morn 

Which  may  be  mine  through  Christ,  the  living  way, 
The  glorious  morning  of  a  better  day, 

The  clouds  of  Earth  will  flee  before  its  dawn. 


Then  Joy's  day-star,  how  brightly  will  it  shine, 
How  grand  the  Vast  that  will  before  me  rise 
When  open  swing  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

And  the  dear  Christ  shall  take  this  hand  of  mine 

And  lead  me  onward  through  the  pastures  green, 
Beside  still  waters  in  that  Better  Land 
Where  the  grand  mounts  of  Peace  forever  stand, 

And  God's  own  love  lights  all  the  vales  between. 

Why  should  we  fear  to  go  if  Christ  be  ours? 
Help  us,  O  Father !  in  Thy  love  to  trust, 
Redeeming  love  which  guards  this  earthly  dust, 

And  triumphs  o'er  the  grave  and  all  its  powers. 

There  is  no  death  to  those  who,  trusting,  wait; 
God  moves  us  on,  and  unto  Him  we  go 
To  where  a  larger,  better  life  we  know; 

What  we  call  Death  but  just  unlocks  its  gate. 

THE  WORLD'S  STORY.     (1897.) 

O  would  that  we  could  know  the  mysteries 

Of  far-off  times;  the  many  hidden  ways 

Of  long-dead  feet ;  could  look  with  vision  clear 

On  that  far  morning  when  the  world  was  young, 

And  men  built  pyramids  which  face  today, 

And  first  the  skies  upon  the  silent  Sphinx 

Looked  down  in  their  own  voiceless  wonderment. 

O  shadowed  Past!  the  ages  wrap  thee  round, 

Yet  ceaselessly  hath  moved  unresting  on 

The  procession  vast  of  men  and  nations, 

And  graves  are  sown  upon  the  earth  as  thick 

As  heaven's  own  stars.     Cities  are  but  motes 

Upon  the  breast  of  Time,  blown  by  his  breath, 

Crumbling  to  dust  of  years  as  doth  Decay 

Gnaw  at  them  with  his  tireless  tooth,  munching 

So  hungrily.     The  Nile  sweeps  onward  and 

Growth  dreams  in  its  arms,  and  smiles  the  land 

Beneath  its  tender  touch,  and  breaks  into 

Its  joyous  blossoming  as  when  of  old 

The  infant  Moses,  rocked  by  its  tide,  lay 

In  his  little  ark  upon  its  breast  in 

The  cool  shadow  of  the  rushes  growing  on 

Its  banks,  and  proud,  great-templed  Egypt  held 

His  race  in  bondage.     B«rt  that  old  Egypt  long  since 

Did  darken.     O  cruel  Time,  with 

Thy  large,  hidden  eyes  turned  ever  to  the 

Future,  gorging  thyself  upon  the  Present, 

Today  the  morsel  which  thy  hungry  maw 

Insatiate  seizes,  what  of  the  vanished 

Nations  which  thou  hast  known  and  nursed  upon 

Thy  ample  lap?     What  of  the  world's  heroes 

That  have  lived,  moving  the  world  with  their  great 

Might  of  mind,  shaping  the  destinies  of 

Peoples  before  whom  trembled  Tyranny 

And  toppled  the  Oppressor's  throne,  while  his 

Armies  melted  like  the  mist  before  the 

Dawn?     Prophets    and   priests    that    stood   before    the 

Young  world's  altars  are  no  more.     The  glory 

Of  many  kingly  crowns  melted  before 


142 


The  Life  that  Is  Free. 


Rome's  mighty   Caesars.     Freedom    for   ages 
Trod  the  groaning  earth,  robed  but  in  sackcloth. 
The  clash  of  arms  and  the  tread  of  marching 
Armies  drowned  all  the  air,  and  Liberty 
Lay  in  a  death-like  swoon  for  centuries. 
O  storied  Past !     O  prehistoric  Past ! 
O  days  that  are  and  days  that  are  to  be, 
When  God's  recording  angel  shall  have  laid 
Aside  his  pen,  and  written  "Finis"  on 
The  last   full  page  of  Time,  shall  then  the  luster 
Of  men's  later  deeds  brighten,  like  some  great 
Sun,  the  whole  world's  story?     Will  God  then  say, 
'Tis  well,  the  sun  is  good  and  th'  eternal 
Years  will  round  to  greater  perfectness,  to 
Vaster  worth  because  man  was  and  is  and 
Shall  be?     Earth's  dross  is  lost,  and  lo!  behold 
The   godhood   in   man   brightens   gloriously! 

THE  LIFE  THAT  IS  FREE.     (1879.) 
If  over  the  River  of  Death  there  lieth 
A  home  of  rest  and  of  joy  for  me, 
Ah!  why  is  it  then  that  my  spirit  sigheth 


And  shrinks  with  dread  from  that  glad  To  Be? 
Why  cling  I  thus  fondly  to  earth  and  its  sorrows; 
Why  shrink  from  the  shadowless,  painless  Tomorrows 

Of  the  life  that  is  endless,  the  life  that  is  free? 


WHAT  AM  I? 

I'm  but  a  mite  upon  Time's  ocean  cast — 

An  atom,  cipher ;  like  a  mote  within  a  sunbeam 

Here  I  lie,  and  would  be  never  missed  if  lost; 

And  yet,  even  more  than  all  Time's  mighty  years, 

Even  more  than  all  these  myriad  of  stars  with  all  their 

shining  gold, 
Studding  Creation's  face  like  pearls,  and  weeping  their 

dewy  tears 

In  the  still  night-time  o'er  the  sin-cursed  earth; 
Even  more  than  all  these  doth  my  Father  hold  me  worth. 
With    soul    outliving    all— years,    stars,    and    Time    and 

earth. 


143 


uvenile 


A  YOUNG  HEART  SINGS  TO  OTHER  YOUNG  HEARTS. 


GOD  LIGHTING  THE  STARS. 

The  stars  are  out,  the  million  planetary 
Spheres  that  light  the  Night.     Down  the  far  slopes  of 
Day  the  Sun  hath  sunk  through  golden  doors,  whose 
Hinges  hang  upon  the  West. 

Day  wrapped  her- 

Self  in  robes  of  crimson  and  of  gold,  and 
Like  a  queen  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the 
Coming  Night.     A  moment  round  her  stood  her 
Worshipers.     The  winged  breeze  kissed  her  feet 
And  reverently  touched  her  garment's  hem. 
A  rosy  banner  flamed  within  the  West, 
And  a  bright  star  flashed  into  splendor  on 
Her  shining  vest.     The  breeze-swept  trees  lifted 
Innumerable  hands  and  touched  some  unseen 
Chords  which  poured  out  whispering  symphonies, 
And  lo !  a  bird  sprang  from  its  nest  and  sang 
As  if  the  morn  had  come.     Above  him  hung 
A  golden  cloud,  shaped  like  the  gondolas 
Of  fair  Venice,  and  as  it  swept  the  deep-blue 
Sea  of  air,  lo!  from  its  side  outflashed  a 
Shining  oar  of  misty  frailness,  which  the 
Quick  eye  of  a  little  child  did  see,  and 
Swift  she  spoke:     "Oh,  Mamma!  Dod  is  coming 
In  His  boat  to  light  the  stars!" 


THE  FAIRIES  AND  THE  CHILDREN. 

Dainty  little  fairies  sitting  on  the  leaf 
Of  the  golden  poppy,  swinging  on  the  sheath 
Of  the  tiger-lily,  swaying  in  the  Sun, 
Laughing  in  the  night-time  when  the  day  is  done; 
Dancing  in  the  moonlight  in  the  Summer  weather, 
In  the  open  forest  where  you  went  together: 
How  the  little  children  wish  that  they  could  share 
All  j'our  merry  frolics  in  the  forest  there! 
See  the  poppies  open  all  their  golden  doors; 
See  the  clover  fling  you  all  its  honeyed  stores; 
See  your  chambers  hidden  in  the  pretty  heart 
Of  the  wild-flowers  standing  in  the  woods  apart; 
See  your  fairy  couches,  where  the  spiders'  web 
Like  a  silken  cover  o'er  your  forms  is  spread; 
See  your  lovely  dresses,  made  from  apple  bloom, 
See  your  hair  like  silver  shining  in  the  moon, 
And  your  dainty  slippers  on  your  tiny  feet, 
Made  of  scarlet  rose-leaves,  all  so  soft  and  sweet; 
Sit  down  at  your  banquet,  when  your  cups  are  filled 
With  the  honeyed  nectar  from  the  flowers  distilled; 
Hide  with  you  a  moment  in  the  lily's  breast, 
Draw  its  leafy  curtain  round  them  while  they  rest, 
And  your  wings  of  silver,  which  are  so  very  fair, 
Borrow  for  a  moment  to  wander  through  the  air, 
As  the  happy  birds  do,  as  the  fairies  may, 
Mounting  through  the  starlight  to  the  Moon  away. 
Ah !  how  many  wonders  they  would  surely  see 
If  at  a  fairies'  party  they  could  only  be. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  FAIRY. 

Swing,  swing,  O  poppies  golden ! 
Upon  the  hillsides  olden. 
And  pretty  bluebells  ring, 
As  on  your  stalks  you  swing, 
For  I  think  along  your  way 
Does  a  beauteous  fairy  stray 
With  eyes  so  blue 
And  smiles  so  sweet, 
With  a  roseleaf  for  her  shoe, 
While  round  her  shoulders  meet 
Two  slender  lily-leaves — 
She  wears  them  for  her  mantle, 
While  the  spider's  silver  web 
Makes  a  bright  veil  for  her  head, 
And  of  lovely  violets  blue 
Is  formed  her  gown  so  new, 
Falling  down  in  softest  grace 
Beneath  her  dimpled  face. 
Oh,  she  is  a  tiny  thing! 
But  don't  you  think!     I  saw  her  swing 
Where  the  tender  grass  grows  tall  and  slender, 
On  a  silver  cobweb  slender. 
But  she  chanced  to  slip,  and  lo! 
Almost  drowned  was  she,  I  know, 
In  a  dewdrop;  but  a  bee, 
Flying  past  there,  chanced  to  see 
Her  vain  struggles,  and  some  way — 
How  he  did  it  I  can't  say — 
He  the  fairy  helped  to  climb 
To  his  back;  then  he  bore  her — 
For  this  bee,  he  did  adore  her — 
To  her  castle  builded  fair 
In  a  honeysuckle's  breast, 
And  laid  her  gently  there  to  rest, 
With  her  eyelids  folded  down 
O'er  her  lovely  eyes  so  blue. 
Then  a  butterfly  drew  near, 
And  he  lent  a  listening  ear- 
Listening  if  he  might  but  hear 
One  faint  breath.     At  length  her  eyes 
'Neath  her  lifted  lids  looked  out, 
And  the  butterfly  and  bee, 
Happy  in  their  glad  surprise, 
Gave  the  softest  little  shout, 
And  a  spider  overhead, 
Spinning  there  his  silver  thread, 
Dropped  a  line  of  gossamer 
Downward  from  his  web  to  her. 
Then  adown  this  shining  thread, 
Swift  he  ran,  and  bore  to  her 
A  small  slice  of  beetle's  wing, 
And  a  bit  of  honey  dew 
From  a  rose  leaf  filtered  through, 
And  the  fairy  ate  and  drank, 
Turning  with  a  smile  to  thank 
The  spider,  butterfly  and  bee 
For  their  kindly  courtesy. 


144 


IN    1878. 


Sr^N 

{UNIVERSITY] 
VfifiLli 


The  Story  of  a  Wicked  Fairy. 


A  VISION  OF  SANTA  CLAUS. 

The  other  night  I  lay  asleep, 

The  soft  winds  round  me  stirred, 

But  every  other  sound  was  hushed 
Of  bee  and  beast  and  bird. 

The  twinkling  stars  were  overhead, 

And  smiling  down  they  look 
On  orange  groves  and  budding  rose, 

On  mountain,  plain  and  brook. 

I  softly  slept,  and  then  I  thought 

That  I  awake  did  lie; 
And  all  at  once  I  looked  and  saw 

Such  glory  in  the  sky. 

It  lighted  all  the  midnight  trees 

Till  leafy  shadows  fell ; 
It  filled  my  chamber  with  its  light, 

Till  I  could  see  quite  well. 

And  then  I  heard  the  slightest  sound 

Within  the  chimney  near; 
The  step  was  stealthy  as  it  came, 

So  light  I  scarce  could  hear. 

I  dared  not  open  wide  my  eyes, 

But  lay  as  if  asleep, 
While  out  between  my  half-closed  lids 

I  cautiously  did  peep. 

Wide  sprung  the  door,  and  in  my  room, 
While  breathless  peeping  out, 

I  saw  all  dressed  in  coat  and  fur 
Some  one  both  tall  and  stout. 

He  was,  I'm  sure,  some  six  feet  tall, 

A  fat  and  jolly  fellow; 
His  eyes  they  twinkled  like  the  stars, 

Like  red,  ripe  apples  mellow, 

His  rosy  cheeks  stood  out  to  view, 
His  face  was  round  and  merry, 

And  when  he  laughed  his  sides  did  shake 
Just  like  a  bowl  of  jelly. 

He  looked  around  this  way  and  that, 

He  felt  within  his  pockets, 
And  took  out  dolls  and  drums  and  books 

And  funny  toy  sky-rockets. 

The  more  he  took  from  them  the  more 
The  pockets  seemed  to  grow, 

Till  they  were  big  enough  to  hold 
Ten  thousand  things,  I  know. 

And  then  he  went  from  room  to  room, 

On  tiptoe  softly  walking, 
And  peeped  in  every  door,  and  then 

I  surely  heard  him  talking. 

"No  children  here,  dear  me!"  said  he, 
"What  is  a  home  without  them? 

The  blessed  children !  give  me  homes 
With  boys  and  girls  about  them!" 


And  then  he  gathered  up  his  toys, 
His  drums  and  dolls  and  laces, 

His  music  boxes  and  his  books, 
And  stored  them  in  their  places. 

And  I  am  sure  I  saw  a  tear 

Within  his  big  blue  eye; 
No  children  here !  it  was  enough 

To  make  Kriss  Kringle  cry. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  WICKED  FAIRY. 

Once  there  was  a  lovely  fairy, 

And  her  step  it  was  as  light 
As  the  wind  within  the  meadows 
Chasing  all  the  moving  shadows, 

And  swaying  blossoms  bright. 

And  this  fairy,  airy  maiden 

She  had  a  noble  lover, 
Whom  a  wicked  fairy  wanted, 
And  who  sought  him,  nothing  daunted, 

Though  she  knew  he  loved  the  other. 

And  one  day  she  came  unto  him 
Looking  sweeter  than  a  rose, 

For  her  dress  she  wore  a  lily, 

And  a  shawl  of  daffodilly, 
And  a  pansy  hid  her  toes. 

And  a  dewdrop  bright  did  glisten 

Like  a  diamond  at  her  throat, 
And  the  other's  smile  she'd  stolen, 
With  her  hair  so  soft  and  golden, 
And  her  voice's  silver  note. 

Stolen !  how  ?     When  she  was  sleeping 
LTnderneath  the  rose's  stalk, 

While  the  blossoms  bloomed  above  her, 

And  the  butterflies  did  hover 
All  along  the  garden  walk — 

Through  the  silence,  stealing  softly, 

Came  the  wicked  fairy  there, 
Stole  a  rose  thorn  for  her  saber, 
With  it  stabbed  her  sleeping  neighbor, 
Stole  her  smile  and  golden  hair. 

Then  she  took  a  drop  of  water, 

Lying  in  the  rose's  heart, 
For  a  mirror  hung  it  by  her 
On  a  flaming  poppy's  spire. 

Then  she  tore  her  robes  apart. 

Soiled  and  stained,  away  she  flung  them, 

Tore  her  own  locks  from  her  head, 
Then  she  took  the  tresses  golden 
Which  her  wicked  hands  had  stolen 
From  the  beauteous  fain-  dead. 

Round  her  head  the  silken  tresses 

Lay  like  sunny  rings  of  light, 
And  the  smile,  so  sweet  and  holy, 
Lighted  all  her  face  with  glory — 
She  was  lovely  to  the  sight. 


145 


Juvenile  Poems, 


Then  she  peeped  within  her  mirror, 
Smiled  to  see  herself  so  fair. 

Now,  said  she,  I'll  win  her  lover, 

Me  he  never  will  discover 

While  I  wear  this  golden  hair. 

Then  with  swift  and  noiseless  footsteps 

She  through  Fairyland  did  go, 
Till  he  saw  and  ran  to  meet  her, 
And  with  kisses  fond  did  greet  her, 
Because  he  loved  her  so — 

Dreaming  not  that  she  was  other 

Than  the  fairy  he  would  wed, 

Were  not  these  her  shining  tresses, 

This  her  smile,  her  hand  he  presses, 

And  this  her  own  dear  head? 

And  the  fairy-bells  ring  round  them — 

Little  bluebells  in  the  grass, 
But  how  sad  their  notes  are  stealing, 
Oh,  what  is  it?  each  is  pealing 
Solemn  dirges  as  they  pass. 

And  the  dandelions  bending, 

And  the  swaying  lilies  fair 
Brush  the  moisture  from  their  faces, 
Crying  in  their  quiet  places, 

Weeping  softly  everywhere. 

Overhead  a  bird  is  flying, 

Wings  of  gold  and  breast  of  red, 
And  the  music  of  its  singing 
With  the  saddest  notes  is  ringing, 

As  if  Joy  itself  were  dead. 

Down  the  bird  drops  to  his  shoulder, 

Then  it  nestles  in  his  breast, 
Then  the  noble  fairy  holds  it 
In  his  hand,  and  then  he  folds  it 
In  his  arms  to  let  it  rest. 

Oh!  what  wondrous  eyes  'tis  lifting, 

Eyes  so  full  of  tender  light, 
Eyes  so  full  of  earnest  blessing, 
Eyes  so  full  of  love's  caressing, 
Eyes  as  blue  as  skies  at  night. 

All  his  pulses  were  a-quiver, 

All  his  soul  was  strangely  stirred, 

And  he  felt  his  whole  heart  turning 

With  a  strange  and  tender  yearning 

To  this  lovely,  bright-winged  bird. 

Then  his  hand  he  lifted  gently, 

And  from  out  its  silver  case 

Drew  his  feiry  wand  so  slender, 

Waved  it  o'er  the  bird  with  tender 

Stroke,  and  lo !  its  lovely  face, 

Its  bird-like  form  was  changed  again, 
And,  lo!  the  fairy  that  was  slain 
Grew  fair  and  sweet  with  life  again; 
And  then  she  told  him  how  she  died, 


And  how  the  wicked  fairy  came 
And  stole  her  smile,  and  stole  her  hair, 
And  sought  to  steal  her  lover,  too — 
The  fairy  King,  her  lover  true. 

Then  from  the  wicked  fairy's  face 
Faded  the  smile;  the  golden  curls 
Which  she  had  stolen  fell  away, 
And  there  she  stood,  an  ugly  thing, 
Abhorrent  to  the  fairy  King. 

He  lifted  up  his  wand  once  more, 
Swung  it  the  wicked  fairy  o'er, 
And  she  was  quickly  changed, 
And,  lo !  upon  the  ground  she  hopped, 
With  spotted  coat  and  blinking  eyes, 
A  poisonous  toad.     No  magic  art 
Will  ever  change  her  back  again, 
A  toad  she  always  must  remain. 

MY  CHILDREN. 

["Our  Boys  and  Girls."  Poein  recited  by  the  author  or 
Children's  Day  at  the  Loan  Exhibit  in  the  new  Pasadem 
Library  Building,  Feb.  11,  1889.] 

All  the  country  over, 

Where  the  dawn  is  shining  like  a  crown, 
And  where  the  glory  of  the  sunset 
Sheds  its  radiant  brightness  down; 
In  the  Northland  and  in  the  Southland, 
In  the  East  and  in  the  West, 
The  children  of  my  love  are  scattered, 
Yet  in  my  heart  they  rest. 

All  the  country  over, 
In  so  many  other  homes  than  mine, 
With  other  lips  to  kiss  them, 
And  other  hearts  to  bless  them, 
My  Boys  and  Girls  I  find. 
But,  then,  somehow  I  fancy 
That  through  Love's  necromancy 
I  feel  the  clinging  of  their  fingers, 
As  my  heart  among  them  lingers, 
And  though  they've  other  mothers — 
These  sisters  and  these  brothers — 
I  feel  they,  too,  are  mine. 

All  the  country  over, 

Many  black-eyed  darlings  smile  upon  me, 
And  their  faces,  like  a  posy, 
Are  so  sweet  and  round  and  rosy — 
That  without  reviling 
Any  of  the  wildwood  blossoms  fair, 
I  say  truly,  there  are  surely 
None  that  with  these  darlings  can  compare 
For  beauty  and  for  sweetness, 
For  brightness  and  completeness, 
As  I  meet  them  everywhere. 

All  the  country  over, 
Sweeter  than  the  clover 
That  with  honey-dew  is  filled, 
With  cheeks  of  dimpled  whiteness, 


146 


Cinderella,  or  The  Crystal  Slipper. 


With  steps  of  airy  lightness 

Do  my  blue-eyed  darlings  greet  me, 

And  my  brown-eyed  darlings  meet  me, 

Till  I  have  as  many  children 

As  the  Woman  in  the  Shoe; 

But  like  her  I  never  do 

Think  I  have  too  many, 

And  I  would  not  part  with  any. 

Like  doves  with  white  wings  flying, 
Come  their  welcome  letters  to  me, 
Written  with  their  rosy  fingers; 
Dimpled  cheeks  above  them  leaning, 
Shining  eyes  above  them  beaming, 
While  their  busy  brains  are  teeming 
With  their  fancies  undefined. 
Ah,   their  letters !  trusting  letters, 
Hold  me  like  to  silken  fetters, 
And  these  Boys  and  Girls  of  mine, 
By  some  occult,  wordless  sign, 
Know  me  as  their  friend  and  lover 
All  the  wide,  sweet  country  over. 

From  out  the  wide  world's  sunny  ways, 

Where'er  their  feet  are  straying, 

The  sweetest  music  that  I  hear 

Is  what  their  lips  are  saying. 

And  fairer  than  the  stars  above 

That  light  the  midnight  spaces, 

And  sweeter  than  the  wayside  flowers 

Are  their  pure,  happy  faces. 

I  often  dream  of  them  by  day, 

These  budding,  sweet  immortals, 

And  by  and  by  I  hope  we  may 

All  pass  the  heavenly  portals; 

And  then  I  think  how  sweet  the  smile 

That  will  light  up  their  faces, 

As,  hand  in  hand,  we  then  may  go 

Through   all   the  heavenly   places. 


CINDERELLA,  OR  THE  CRYSTAL  SLIPPER.* 

There   among  the  pots  and   kettles, 

Little  Cinderella, 
With  her  lips  as  red  as  cherries, 
Sweet  and  luscious  as  ripe  berries; 
Face  so  fair  and  free  from   freckles, 
Cheeks  as  lovely  as  the  roses, 
Fairer  than  her  garden  posies, 

Little  Cinderella 
Down  among  her  pots  and  kettles. 

There  among  the  dust  and  cinders, 

Little  Cinderella! 

There  her  sisters  fain  would  keep  her, 
And  of  every  pleasure  cheat  her, 
While  they  don  their  silks  and  laces, 

•(Extracts:)  "Echoes  from  Elfland."— A  Christmas  Juvenile. 
1890.  The  verses  entitled  "Little  Boy  Blue"  and  "Jack  and 
the  Beanstalk"  are  from  the  same  source. 


Seeking  Fashion's  gayest  places, 
Leaving  in  the  kitchen  lonely 

Little  Cinderella- 
There  among  the  dust  and  cinders. 

THE    FAIRY    GODMOTHER'S    SILVER    WAND. 

Swings  the  wand  around  and  o'er  her, 

Little  Cinderella; 
And  a  pumpkin  large  and  golden, 
Standing  by  the  door-side  olden, 
Just  without  the  kitchen  quiet, 
Changes  as  the  wand  swings  nigh  it, 
To  a  splendid  coach  and  four, 

Little  Cinderella 
Sees  it  standing  at  the  door. 

How   the   fiery   steeds   are  prancing! 

Little  Cinderella 

Sees  them,  and  her  eyes  ope  wider 
As  her  godma  stands  beside  her — 
Stands  and  waves  her  wand  so  lightly, 
Smiling  all  the  time  so  brightly, 
Fairer  than  a  Princess  is  she — 

Little  Cinderella- 
While  the  fiery  steeds  are  prancing. 

All  her  soiled  and  dusty  garments 

Little  Cinderella 

Sees  are  changing.     Oh,  how  charming 
Grows  the  sleeve  that  wraps  her  arm  in; 
Diamonds  shine  upon  its  whiteness, 
'Tis  like  gossamer  in  lightness, 
And  her  silken  skirts  are  gleaming 
As  with  hidden  sunbeams  teeming. 

Little  Cinderella's 
Lost  her  soiled  and  dusty  garments. 

Blue  her  eyes  and  gold  her  tresses ! 

Little  Cinderella 

Stands,  and  still  her  godma  waveth 
Silver  wand,  and  still  she  sayeth 
Words  so  full  of  magic  meaning, 
At  which  fairy  gifts  come  teeming; 
All  that  any  lady  needeth 
From  her  godmamma  receiveth 

Little  Cinderella- 
Blue  her  eyes  and  gold  her  tresses. 

Then  when  she  is  clad  in  beauty- 
Little  Cinderella- 
Outward  through  the  door  she  glideth 
To  her  coach  and  four,  and  rideth 
Like  a  Queen  the  highway  down, 
Rideth  to  the  far-off  town, 
And  the  ballroom  door  she  reacheth, 

Little  Cinderella, 
Like  a  Queen  all  clad  in  beauty. 

As  she  enters  music  ceasethj 

Little  Cinderella 
Is  so  fair  each  one  forgets  to 
Dance,  and  each  one  sets  to 


147 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Gazing  at  her.     But  the  Prince  comes  near  her, 
Thinking  she  is  sweeter,  dearer 
Than  all  the  ladies  he  had  ever  seen; 

Little  Cinderella, 
As  she  enters  music  ceaseth. 

And  he  boweth  low  before  her — 

Little  Cinderella- 
Then  her  to  the  dance  he  leadeth, 
And  no  other  woman  heedeth. 
E'en  her  sisters  do  not  know  her, 
And  most  charming  grace  they  show  her 
As  she  dances  with  the  Prince — 

Little  Cinderella— 
And  he  boweth  low  before  her. 

Ere  the  clock  strikes  twelve  she  leaveth — 

Little  Cinderella; 
Riding  in  her  coach  and  four, 
Reacheth  she  the  cottage  door, 
As  her  godmamma  did  bid  her. 
Soon  her  sisters  came  and  chid  her 
In  her  quiet  chamber  lying — 

Little  Cinderella— 
Ere  the  clock  strikes  twelve  she  leaveth. 

Three  nights  thus  the  little  maiden — 

Little  Cinderella- 
Loveliest  of  lovely  women, 
Fairer  than  the  lilies  swimming 
In  their  golden  sea  of  light — 
Hied  her  to  the  ballroom,  going 
In  her  coach  and  four,  unknowing 
How  the  Prince  had  learned  to  love  her, 
Without  heart  for  any  other — 

Little  Cinderella- 
Three  nights  went  the  little  maiden. 

Ere  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  my  darling 

Little  Cinderella, 

Leave  the  ballroom,  leave  the  dancing, 
Go  to  where  your  steeds  are  prancing, 
And  speed  you  from  the  ballroom  door; 
Thus  her  godmamma  had  bidden, 
And  each  night  away  she'd  ridden — • 

Little  Cinderella, 
Ridden  from  the  ballroom  door. 

On  the  last  night  twelve  was  striking, 

Little  Cinderella 

Heard  the  silver  chimes  a-ringing, 
How  she  hurried,  quickly  flinging 
In  her  haste  all  things  aside, 
Running  down  the  ballroom  wide; 
She  was  late — what  would  betide 

Little  Cinderella, 
For,  alas,  now  twelve  was  striking? 

As  she  ran  she  lost  her  slipper, 

Little  Cinderella, 

Swiftly  closed  the  door  behind  her; 
Ah!  what  if  the  Prince  should  find  her 
In  the  darkness  all  alone, 


Coach  and  four  and  splendor  flown, 
Wearing  only  kitchen  raiment? 

Little  Cinderella, 
As  she  ran  she  lost  her  slipper, 

But  the  noble  Prince  he  found  it; 

Little  Cinderella 
Went  back  to  her  homely  duty, 
Wearing  still  the  rose  of  beauty 
In  her  red  cheeks  and  her  lips, 
And  her  soft  pink  finger-tips. 
There  the  Prince  came  next  day,  bringing 
Her  lost  slipper,  while  she,  singing, 
Washed  her  pots  with  hands  like  roses, 

Little  Cinderella, 
For  the  noble  Prince  had  found  it. 

Oh,   her   eyes   were  blue  as   heaven, 

Little  Cinderella's; 
Like  a  rosebud  stood  she  blushing, 
Happiness  her  cheeks  were  flushing, 
At  the  noble  Prince's  greeting, 
At  the  gladness  of  the  meeting. 
Then   the  door  swung  open  wide, 
Stood  her  godma  at  her  side, 

Little  Cinderella's; 
Oh,  her  eyes  were  blue  as  heaven. 

Stood  again,  and  smiling,  blessed  her, 

Little  Cinderella, 

Waved  her  wand,  and  lo!  around  her — 
Lovely  as  when  first  he  found  her — 
Silken  folds  about  her  shining, 
Jewels  are  her  arms  entwining. 
And  the  Prince  he  woos  and  wins  her. 

Little  Cinderella- 
Stood  again,  and,  smiling,  blessed  her. 

Nevermore,  'mid  pots  and  kettles, 

Little  Cinderella, 

There  her  sisters  cannot  keep  her, 
Nor  of  any  pleasure  cheat  her, 

Little  Cinderella, 
For  she  is  the  Prince's  bride. 

A  LITTLE  POEM. 

Say,  what  do  you  think,  little  Spring, 
Bubbling  up  so  cool  from  the  ground? 
Where  the  grasses  lean  to  you, 
And  the  mosses  creep  near  to  you, 

And  to  greet  you  the  forest  stands  around  i 

Oh,  the  world  I  think  is  so  fair, 
With  the  blue  sky  over  my  head, 
With  the  birds  singing  sweetly, 
The  flowers  bloomingly  meekly, 

And  the  Sun  shining  down  on  my  bed. 

Say,  little  Brook,  say,  oh,  whither 
Are  you  running  so  swiftly  away? 
Here  the  glad  birds  sing  to  you, 
And  the  children  draw  near  to  you, 

With  their  white  feet  kissed  by  your  spray. 


148 


Lullaby  Sung. 


I'm  running  on  to  the  River, 
The  great,  flowing  river  you  see, 
And  my  waters  run  lightly, 
And  they  sparkle  so  brightly, 

Because  I'm  glad  as  can  be. 

Oh,   lovely,   wide-flowing    River ! 

Rushing  on,  such  green  banks  between, 
With  such  great  cities  near  you, 
With  their  splendor  to  cheer  you, 

Of  what  lovelier  spot  do  you  dream? 

Oh,  of  the  wide-swelling  Ocean! 

With  white  wings  of  ships  on  its  breast, 

With  its  tides  flowing  softly, 

With  its  star-candles  lofty, 
And  its  waves  which  never  do  rest. 

And  Ocean,  what  do  you  dream  of? 

For  you  can  run  never  away; 

The  continents  round  you 

Have  a  prisoner  bound  you, 
And  they  guard  you  by  night  and  by  day. 

I  dream  of  God's  wide  creation, 

Of  His  stars,  His  sun  and  His  sky, 
Of  His  swift  winds  which  do  creep 
Like  His  breath  o'er  the  deep, 

And  the  clouds  which  o'er  me  do  fly. 

LULLABY  SONG. 

Baby,  baby,  go  to  sleep ! 
All  the  stars  are  looking  down 
From  their  chambers  in  the  blue, 
And  they  twinkling  peep  at  you, 
And  they  see  the  little  frown 
Creeping  from  your  eyelids  down. 

Baby  does  not  want  to  go 
To  her  pretty  chamber  fair, 
For  she  wants  to  watch  the  Moon; 
And  she  holds  her  dimpled  hand 
Up  to  reach  it  shining  there, 
Begging  mamma  that  she  will 
Get  it  for  her  if  she  can. 

Baby,  baby,  go  to  sleep ! 
Mamma  cannot  reach  the  Moon, 
Shining  up  amid  the  stars, 
Peeping  through  the  window  bars; 
But  could  mamma  take  it  down 
All  the  night  would  be  so  dark, 
For  the  little  stars'  bright  spark 
Would  not  make  the  world  as  bright 
As  the  moonbeams'  silver  light. 

Baby,  baby,  go  to  sleep ! 
Mamma  sings  her  lullaby 
While  you  drift  away  so  far — 
Farther  than  the  farthest  star — 
Where  the  blessed  fairies  stay, 
Where  your  little  feet  may  stray 
By  the  silver  flow  of  streams, 
In  the  far-off  Land  of  Dreams. 


Baby,  baby,  go  to  sleep! 
While  the  fairies  kiss  your  lips, 
Pressing  with  their  finger-tips 
Both  your  pretty  eyelids  down, 
Kissing  out  the  naughty  frown. 
See  the  lovely  grasses  quiver, 
Hear  the  ripples  on  the  River 
Where  upon  its  breast  afloat 
Lies  your  dream-filled   ferryboat. 

CHILDHOOD. 

I  see  a  little  child;  the  very  air 

Is  soft  and  tender  to  her, 

The  birds  do  sing  to  woo  her, 
And  all  the  world,  how  glad  it  is  and  fair. 

The  mystery  of  sun  and  starry  skies, 

The  air  so  softly  blowing, 

The  streamlet  gently  flowing, 
The  path  of  gold  that  on  the  water  lies; 

The  cornstalks  ruffled  by  the  summer  breeze, 
Their  golden  tassels  shining, 
About  their  green  sheaths  twining, 

To  her  what  wondrous  fairy  things  are  these. 

And  thus  she  muses  as  she  stands  alone, 
For  wondrous  thoughts  do  cheer  her 
As  night's  mysteries  draw  near  her, 

With  a  starry  glory  all  its  own. 

I  think  when  God  looks  on  us  in  the  night 
The  stars   come  twinkling  round   Him, 
The  Moon  smiles  'cause  it's  found  Him, 

And  then  how  very  large  it  looks  and  bright. 

And  when  the  day  comes  I  do  think  that  He 
Peeps  right  out  of  heaven's  door, 
Looks  the  shining,  bright  world  o'er, 

And  then  He's  glad  that  He  can  look  at  me. 

And  then  He  drops  the  flowers  'round  my  feet, 

And  all  the  birds  go  singing, 

Until  the  world  is  ringing 
With  their  songs  so  lovely  and  so  sweet. 

And  so  God  walks  with  her  by  da.   and  night, 
And  she  hears  Him  in  the  breeze 
And  in  the  sunshine  on  the  trees; 

She  sees  the  blessed  glory  of  His  light. 

CHILDHOOD'S  DAYS  IN  WINTERLAND. 

Oh,  how  we  played  'neath  the  Summer  sky, 

Charlie  and  May,  Willie  and  I ! 

Blue  skies  overhead,  and  singing  near 

The  little  brook  with  its  waters  clear. 

And  Willie  built  where  we  used  to  kneel 

Such  a  wonderful  little  water-wheel, 

That  rolled  and  swung  itself  round  and  round 

As  th'  water  caught  it  at  a  single  bound 

Over  the  dam,  a  foot  high  or  more, 

Where  we  fancied  it  rushed  with  a  mighty  roar, 


149 


Juvenile  Poems. 


And  Edwin  used  often  to  canter  down, 

Playing  at  horse  as  he  dragged  around 

His  little  cart  with  its  cotton  thills 

And  wheels  of  brass.     Over  the  hills, 

Dancing  and  prancing  in  childish  glee, 

Like  an  untamed  colt,  away  ran  he. 

"  Git  up  there,  git !     Whoa,  horsie,  whoa ! " 

Merrily  shouting,  away  he'd  go. 

Of  nodding  poppies  our  fancies  made 

Many  a  boy  and  tiny  maid, 

Pulling  the  red  leaves  round  the  stem 

And  tying  them  down  and  making  them 

Serve  for  dresses  of  finest  stuff, 

While  the  stamens  did  for  a  pretty  ruff, 

And  then,  with  a  sharply-pointed  pin, 

We  would  mark  the  mouth  and  the  two  eyes  in. 

Many  a  summer  palace  we 

Built  'mid  the  rocks  by  the  maple  tree; 

Moss-covered  rocks  for  velvet  chairs, 

Stumps  and  stones  for  our  palace  stairs. 

Mother's  dresses  with  splendid  train 
Served  our  use  in  these  castles  of  Spain; 
Silk-tiled  hats  from  our  father's  store, 
Old  and  battered,  were  brought  once  more; 
Charlie  wore  one  that  was  tall  and  black, 
But  Willie's  had  such  a  yawning  crack ! 
In  Edwin's  a  mouse  had  gnawed  a  hole, 
So  that  through  it  there  the  sunlight  stole; 
But  we  mended  it  quick  with  make-believe 
And  the  happiest  fancies  we  could  weave. 

Then  Charlie's  pumpkin  man  was  clever, 

With  his  gleaming  smile  in  the  darkest  weather. 

Two  holes  for  eyes  in  the  pumpkin's  side, 

And  a  slit  for  a  mouth  that  opened  wide 

And  the  candle  burning  away  within 

Lighted  it  up  from  crown  to  chin. 

And  oh,  when  the  Winter  came  with  snow 

And  with  freezing  breath  the  winds  did  blow, 

What  cared  we  when  we  were  together 

For  the  bitter  cold  of  the  Winter  weather? 

White  and  snug  was  our  house  of  snow, 

For  Charlie  and  Will  had  dug  below 

Deep  into  the  drift,  and  its  walls  were  high 

And  its  snow-arched  roof  shut  out  the  sky. 

And  there,  like  a  soldier  brave  and  bold, 
Fearing  never  a  bit  of  the  Winter's  cold, 
Stood  our  giant  snow-man,  tall  and  white, 
Afraid  of  nothing  but  warm  sunlight. 
We  gave  him  a  stick  for  a  soldier's  gun, 
And  one  at  his  srde  for  a  sword  we  hung; 
Pelted  him  fast  with  snowballs  then, 
And  played  we  were  brave  American  men, 
And  he  was  English,  and  we  would  rout 
And  drive  him  quick  with  his  army  out. 
And  we  did  it,  too,  for  we  knocked  him  down, 
And  he  fell  in  pieces  on  the  ground. 


CHILD  WONDERING.     (1876.) 

,     .     .  The  thunder  muttered  through  the  cloudy  sky, 
The  lightnings  darted  serpent  tongues  of  flame, 
The  mountains  echoed  back  the  thunder's  cry, 
The  sea  flashed  back  the  lightning's  glare  again. 
A  little  child  looked  on  and  hushed  its  mirth, 
And  trembled  with  the  new  and  strange  surprise, 
"I    hear   God    walking,    how    it    shakes    the    earth! 
And  don't  you  see  His  fire  up  in  the  skies? 
How  did  He  make  it?     Did  He  wink  his  eyes?" 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  ROSEBUD.     (1876.) 

.     .     .     A  sweet  white  rosebud  bowed 

its  head  today, 

Wind-tossed  and  troubled  by  the  clouded  air; 
A  jeweled  dew-drop  on  its  petals  lay, 
And  small  child's  hands,  so  dimpled,  soft  and  fair, 
Reached  out  to  pluck  it;  then,  as  quick  as  thought, 
Drew  back.     "Oh,  mamma,  I  will  touch  it  not, 
For  it  is  crying — don't  you  see? 
I  wonder  if  it  is  afraid  of  me!" 

CARE-FREE  CHILDHOOD.     (1876.) 

O  little  ones !  playing  in  sunshine, 
And  happy  the  whole  day  through, 
What  is  the  Sun  shining  for, 
What  is  the  Day  laughing  for, 
If  it  is  not  for  you? 

O  little  ones!  life  is  so  lovely 
With  never  sorrow  or  care! 
What  do  folks  grow  old  for, 
What  are  they  sad  for, 
When  all  the  world  is  so  fair? 

O  darlings !  with  life  all  before  you, 
With  only  gladness  behind, 
Your  years  are  like  snowdrops  in  whiteness, 
All  crowded  with  sunbeams  and  brightness, 
And  joy  to  all  sorrow  is  blind. 

CHILDHOOD'S  FAITH.     (1878.) 

O  mamma!  what  is  dying,  is  it  somefin'  nice? 

Dess  laying  down  and  doin'   fas'  aseep? 

An'  does  'e  soul  dit  out  as  still  as  mice, 

An'  rush  right  up  so  fas'  where  Dod  does  keep 

Himself  above  'e  sky?     I  fink  my  soul  would  'tay 

Awhile  and  peep  at  'e  bright  pritty  moon, 

An'  if  I  liked  it  den  I  wouldn't  run  away, 

But  tay  right  in  its  shine,  and  maybe  soon 

Dod  would  look  down  from  Heaven  and  tay,  "Turn  here, 

You  darling  angels!  oh,  turn  quick  an'  see 

That  bu'ful  'ittle  soul  down  in  'e  moon— the  dear! 

Des  fly  an'  bring  it  right  up  here  to  me." 

An'  den  their  pritty  white  wings  they  would  spread, 

An'  down  they'd  turn  to  me,  pass  all  'e  shining  stars, 

An'  dive  me  wings,  an'  tay,  "Oh,  don't  be  dead." 

An'  den  I'd  open  wide  my  eyes,  an'  quicker  an  'e  cars 


150 


A  Child's  Fancies. 


I'd  fly  right  up  to  Heaven  wif  'em,  and  tay, 
"Here  I  be,  Dod!  oh,  let  me  liv  wid  you." 
An',  mamma,  I  dess  spect  'e  stars  are  angels'  eyes, 
Dess  peeping  at   us  thro'  'e  pritty  blue — 
An'  be  dey  looking  now  for  me,  or  you? 

A  CHILD'S  FANCIES.     (1879.) 

"Mamma,  please  tell  me  about   the   fairies 

That  live  away  under  the  ground, 
That  work  in  the  night  and  the  daytime, 

With  never  a  bit  of  a  sound. 

"Do  they  push  the  flowers  up  with  their  fingers, 
And  how  do  they  handle  the  trees? 

I  do  not  see  how  they  can  crowd  them 

Through  the  earth  and  not  rumple  their  leaves. 

"  And,  mamma,  these  beautiful  bushes 
All  growing  so  straight  and  so  tall, 

So  full  of  their  sweet-smelling  blossoms, 
So  many — can  God  number  them  all? 

"Last  year  dollie's  playhouse  was  under 
This  pretty  wild  rose  that  you  see, 

And  then  it  was  ever  so  little, 
It  was  not  a  bit  bigger  than  me. 

"The  fairies  in  the  ground  must  have  pushed  it 

Still  higher  and  higher  each  day; 
Do  they  never  get  tired  of  working, 

And  stop  never  for  rest  nor  for  play? 

"The  dear  little  things  must  be  busy! 

I  wish  I  could  look  down  and  see; 
If  we  only  could  hear  what  they  say, 

And  how  they  look,  how  nice  it  would  be ! 

"  And  what  homes  have  they,  mother,  way  down, 
Down  under  the  sweet-smelling  ground? 

Do  they  come  up  and  gather  the  sunbeams 
And  scatter  them  even-where  'round?" 

My  darling,  you  have  seen  the  fairies 

With  their  bright-shining  tresses  of  gold, 

And  the  soft  dainty  fingers  with  which 
They  make  the  bright  blossoms  unfold. 

They  are  beautiful  fairies,  my  darling, 
And  now  shall  I  tell  you  their  names? 

The  one  is  the  warm  Summer  Sunshine, 
The  others,  the  Dew  and  the  Rain. 

THE  PET  BIRD.     (1879.) 

I  see  a  little  mound  a  hand's-breadth  long, 

And  rosebuds  red  and  white  are  lying  there; 

It  is  the  burial  place  of  song, 

Yet  not  of  song,  but  of  the  bird  which  sang— 

A   little  yellow-breasted   bird 

That  all  the  air  with  its  sweet  music  stirred 

This  very  morn.     It  is  not  long 

Since  all  the  echoes  made  reply 

To  its    full-throated  melody; 


Yet  now  'tis  stiff  and  cold,  its  song  is  dead, 

And  little  hands  have  made  its  hollow  bed, 

And  o'er  it  fragrant  blossoms  spread. 

Two  sad  and  tearful  eyes  looked  on, 

Two  sweet  lips,  quivering,  said: 

"O  God!  I  feel  so  bad,  my  bird  is  dead! 

But  please,  God,  when  I  plant  him,  make  him  grow 

Into  an  angel  bird."     And  then  with  slow 

And  reverent  care  the  child  knelt  down, 

Saying,  "I'll  wait  for  birdie,  God  has  heard  me  pray, 

And  I  do  want  to  see  my  heaven-bird  fly  away; 

I  wonder  if  he'll  have  a  white  robe  and  a  crown." 


THE  RAINBOW.     (1880.) 

A  little  girl  came  to  me  yesterday, 

With  eyes  as  blue  as  our  own  shining  skies, 
And  in  them  lay  such  look  of  glad  surprise— 
"O  turn  wif  me!     Dess  where  I  was  at  play, 
There's  tummed  a  rainbow  wif  such  lovely  wings, 
'Tis   dess   the   boofulest   of   things!" 

I  took  the  dimpled  hand  in  mine,  and  led 
Through  the  bright  garden  paths,  I  came 
Where  on  a  white  rose,  like  a  living  flame, 

Fluttered  a  gold  and  scarlet  butterfly — 
A   miracle  of  color— embodied   light   aglow, 
Swayed  by  the  breeze  so  softly  to  and  fro. 
"Poor  'ittle  rainbow!  it  has  lost  its  way, 
I  saw  it  drop  right  down  from  out  the  sky; 

Say,  don't  you  fink  if  I  should  only  say 
A  'ittle  prayer  that  Dod  would  hear,  and  fly 

Right  down  for  it?     I  fink  that  I  will  try." 

Then  kneeling  down,  with  white  and  folded  hands 
Upon  her  bosom  like  the  seal  of  peace, 
She  prayed  its  wanderings  might  cease. 

Her  sweet  faith  hindered  by  no  dark  eclipse 
Of  doubt,  she  had  nor  thought  nor  fear 
But  that  her  words  would  reach  the  Father's  ear, 

As  they  softly  fell  from  her  baby  lips. 

O  for  this  living  faith  that  childhood  knows, 
Which  holds  for  aye  the  golden  gates  ajar! 
O  were  this  ours,  we  should  not  wander  far 

From  the  safe  path  where  gates  of  peace  unclose! 


BO-PEEP.     (1880.) 

A  sweet  little  girl  was  darling  Bo-Peep, 

With  hair  all  sunny  and  golden, 
And  she  had  in  the  meadow  a  pretty  pet  sheep, 

But  one  day  she  found  it  was  stolen. 

She  had  run  to  the  meadow  as  glad  as  could  be, 
To  have  a  gay  romp  with  her  treasure, 

But  when  she  got  there  no  sheep  could  she  see, 
Then  she  cried,  and  shed  tears  without  measure. 

Then  her  little  dog  Tray  came  running  that  way, 
And  tucked  his  pug  nose  down  beside  her, 

And  put  his  paw  on  her  arm  as  if  he  would  say, 
"Don't  cry,  and  I'll  help  you  to  find  her." 


151 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Then  she  and  dog  Tray  they  started  away, 

And  ran  through  the  meadow  together, 
And  she  wiped  her  bright  eyes,  and  I'm  happy  to  say, 

Her  heart  soon  was  light  as  a  feather. 

For  upon  the  hillside,  lying  asleep, 

Where  the  grass  grew  greenest  and  tender, 

\Vas  the  pretty  lost  sheep  of  dear  little  Bo-Peep, 
Like  a  white  cloud,  fleecy  and  slender. 

JENNIE  AND  JOHNNIE.  (1882.) 
Four  little  eyes  opened  wide  in  the  dark, 

Two  little  blue  eyes,  and  two  little  brown, 
And  Jen  whispered  softly,  "Oh,  Johnnie,  hark! 

Perhaps  we  will  hear  Santa  Claus  coming  down." 

"Oh,  'ess,  I  hear  him,"  dear  little  Johnnie  said, 
"Down  frew  'e  chimbley  he's  tummin'  to  me! 

Tay,  will  dear  Santa  Claus  ever  be  dead? 

S'pose  he  should  get  drownded  down  in  the  sea?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  Jennie,  "his  reindeers  ride 
Right  through  the  air  dess  as  swift  as  can  be, 

Till  they  stop  on  the  roof  by  the  big  chimbley's  side, 
And  he  dess  looks  down  to  see  what  he  can  see. 

"And  oh,  he  is  glad  when  he  peeks  down  and  sees 
Some  nice  little  children,  like  you  and  like  me; 

Then  he  fills  all  the  beautiful  Christmas  trees 
With  dear  little  dollies  as  sweet  as  can  be; 

"And  nice  little  watches,  an'  ribbons,  an'  rings, 

And"— "Oh,  my!"  said  Johnnie,  "a  rocking-horse,  too?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Jennie,  "I  'spect  he  will  bring 
The  splendidest  rocking-horse,  Johnnie,  for  you." 

Then  Johnnie  he  clapped  his  fat  little  hands, 

And  laughed  till  you'd  thought  some  fairy  was  out; 

And  Jennie  she  laughed  and  shouted  in  glee 
Till  Santa  Claus  heard  her,  if  he  was  about. 

And  I  think  that  he  was,  for  after  awhile, 
When  Jennie  and  Johnnie  were  lying  asleep, 

Each  dear  little  face  still  bright  with  its  smile, 
Each  curly  head  covered  half  up  with  the  sheet, 

There  was  a  tinkle  below  like  the  music  of  bells, 

And  laughter  that  rippled  right  up  through  the  walls, 

And  a  murmuring  like  that  we  hear  in  sea-shells 
Drifted  up  from  the  stairway  right  into  the  halls. 

And  Jennie  and  Johnnie  wake  up  with  the  Sun, 
And  their  little  bare  feet  patter  over  the  floor, 

And  down  the  broad  stairs  together  they  run, 
And  each  curly  head  is  thrust  in  at  the  door 

Of  the  great  drawing-room,  where  the  first  thing  they  see, 
All  lighted  with  candles,  and  filled  to  its  top 

With  beautiful  things,  is  the  tall  Christmas  tree, 
And  the  loveliest  horse  that  goes  off  on  a  trot 

When  you  wind  up  a  spring  right  back  of  his  ear. 

That's  for  Johnnie  to  ride;  and  a  dollie  in  white 
In  a  beautiful  carriage  is  sitting  right  near — 

Both  Johnnie  and  Jennie  hold  their  breath  at  the  sight. 


"O  darlingest  Santa  Claus!"  says  Johnnie  at  last; 

"I  love  him,"  says  Jennie,  "he's  dear  as  can  be; 
If  I  could  dess  see  him  I'd  hold  him  so  fast, 

And  hug  him  and  kiss  him  for  you  and  for  me." 

FAIRYLAND.     (1882.) 

Under  the  old  pine,  lying  asleep, 

Where  shadows  and  sunbeams  danced  and  fell, 
And  the  soft  winds  played  at  hide-and-seek 

With  the  lily  buds  and  the  asphodel, 
With  her  dimpled  hands  tucked  under  her  chin, 

And  her  blue  eyes  folded  beneath  their  lids, 
Lay  sweet  little,  dainty  Ethel  Wynn, 

While  her  lullaby-song  the  katy-dids 
Sang  soft  and  sweet,  and  the  pine  boughs  stirred 

Lightly  above  her,  and  whispered  low 
To  the  gentle  breeze,  and  a  humming-bird, 
From  the  heart  of  a  lily  white  as  snow, 
Sipped  the  honey-drop,  then  away  it  flew, 

Like  a  bright-winged  rainbow  through  the  air, 
And  lost  itself  in  the  sunny  blue. 
But  what  sees  Ethel  lying  there 
Fast  asleep  'neath  the  old  pine  tree? 

Ah,  she  has  gone  to  Fairyland, 
Where  every  beautiful  thing  you  see. 

Now  she  sees  a  busy  band 
Of  laughing  elves,  they  have  opened  a  door 

Into  the  trunk  of  the  ancient  pine; 
Such  cunning  dresses  were  never  wore 

By  anything  of  human  kind. 
One  has  a  coat  of  daffodil, 

And  his  cap  is  made  of  a  sunflower  leaf, 
And  he  carries  a  cup  which  he  hopes  to  fill 

With  a  dewdrop.     His  sword  from  a  sheaf 
Of  grain  he  plucked,  and  a  spider's  web 

Furnished  the  silver  for  his  shield. 
Up  he  goes,  singing;  far  overhead 
Is  a  floor  of  a  shining  sunbeam  made, 
And  there  such  a  throng  of  fairies  tread, 
And  dance  to  the  song  of  a  bumble-bee, 
And  a  grasshopper  sits  on  his  long  hind  legs, 

And  hums  the  strangest  melody, 
But  the  fairies  laugh  and  dance  and  sing, 

And  you  catch  the  scent  of  the  apple  bloom 
Which  forms  the  vest  of  the  Fairy  King, 

And  one  wears  a  robe  of  lily  leaves — 
She  is  the  Queen  of  the  fairy  throng; 
Her  crown  is  made  of  a  baby's  smile, 
Which  she  stole  as  she  kissed  his  eyelids'  down 
In  the  rosy  light  of  the  early  morn. 
'Tis  the  brightest  thing  you  ever  saw, 
Fairer  than  pearls,  or  gold,  or  gems, 
The  loveliest  of  all  diadems. 

And  one  little  fairy  with  sweet  blue  eyes, 
And  lips  like  a  pretty  rosebud's  bloom, 

And  hair  like  the  gold  of  the  sunset  skies, 
Sits  thoughtfully  out  in  tne  light  of  the  moon. 

What  is  she  dropping  downward  now, 
Pure  and  white  as  the  flakes  of  snow, 
Down  on  the  little  Ethel's  brow— 


152 


Jack  and  Jill. 


There,  and  everywhere  they  go. 

Guess  if  you  can — why,  don't  you  know? 
That  is  the  Dream-fairy,  and  she  flings 

Into  our  minds  when  we  are  asleep 
All  of  the  wonderful,  beautiful  things 

That  we  see  when  our  eyes  are  shut. 
She  it  is  who  gives  us  wings; 

She  of  all  the  fairies  is  the  best,  but 
One — out  right  under  the  polar  star, 

Don't  you  see  sitting  the  strangest  of  elves? 
Who  is  he?     Oh,  he's  the  dearest  of  all; — 

See  if  you  can't  think  of  his  name  for  yourselves. 
No!     then  I'll  tell  you.     When  Christmas  is  here 

He  is  the  fairy — Oh,  now  you  know 
Santa  Claus !     But  where  are  his  reindeer, 

And  his  old   fur  cap  and  beard  of  snow? 
Oh,  he  leaves  them  up  at  the  old  North  Pole, 

For  he  doesn't  need  them  now,  you  see, 
The  grand  old  fairy— Old  is  he? 

No;  fairies,    children,    don't    grow    old 
In  the  soft  airs  of  Fairy  Land; 

So,  at  least,  I  have  been  told. 
Just  by  the  touch  of  a  fairy's  wand 

All  the  wrinkles  are  smoothed  away — 
Only  at  Christmas  time  is  he, 

Dear  old  fellow,  wrinkled  and  gray, 
For  then  he  journeys  o'er  land  and  sea. 

But    goodnight    fairies;  lying    asleep, 
Dear  little  Ethel,  let  her  dream 

Of  Fairy  Land.     Sometime  we'll  peep 
And  have  a  glimpse  of  them  all  again. 


JACK  AND  JILL.     (1884.) 

You  have  heard  of  the  brown  house  under  the  hill 

Where  once  lived  dear  little  Jack  and  Jill? 

It  was  set  with  a  beautiful  garden  round, 

Where  the  brightest  blossoms  were  always  found, 

And  Mother  Goose  used  to  come  that  way 

And  sit  in  the  shade  almost  every  day 

Of  the  orange  trees,  and  the  high  bean-stalk 

That  grew  right  beside  the  garden  walk. 

It  was  the  very  one  Jack  climbed  one  day 

When  he  went  up  most  to  the  skies,  they  say, 

And  found  the  Old  Giant  from  whom  he  hid 

Behind  his  great  gold  snuff-box  lid, 

And  Jack  was  a  happy  little  fellow, 

With  merry  blue  eyes,  and  hair  as  yellow 

As  the  sunflower's  leaves,  but  his  face  was  brown 

With  the  sun  and  wind,  but  never  a  frown 

Or  a  naughty  pout  dared  come  to  stay 

On  his  face  or  his  lips,  for  the  smiles  so  bright 

Would  chase  the  naughty  frown  out  of  sight; 

And  his  sister  Jill  was  as  sweet  as  could  be, 

So  sweet  it  did  you  good  to  see 

Her  face  like  a  lily  flower  so  white, 

With  soft  pink  cheeks,  and  a  dimple  right 

In  the  very  heart  of  her  pretty  chin — 

Who  do  you  think  put  the  dimple  in? 


Jack  and  Jill  used  to  play  together 
Through  all  the  fair  bright  Summer  weather, 
And  sometimes  little  Jack  Horner  came, 
Hoppety-skipping  down  the  lane — 

"Little  Jack  Horner  sat  in  a  corner 

Eating  his  Christmas  pie, 

He  stuck  in  his  thumb  and  pulled  out  a  plum, 

And  said,  'What  a  good  boy  am  I  !'" 
How  funny  they  looked  sitting  there  in  a  row, 
While  each  stuck  in  a  thumb  for  a  plum,  you  know, 
And  little.  Jill  clapped  her  hands  in  glee 
When  of  plums  she  pulled  out  one,  two,  three. 

One  day  little  Jack  and  Jill  were  at  play 
At  old  Mother  Hubbard's  over  the  way, 
When  their  mamma  cried,  "Jack  and  my  dear  little 

daughter, 

Will  you  come  and  bring  mother  a  bucket  of  water?" 
And  they  ran  as  quickly  as  two  little  mice, 
And  with  the  bucket  between  them  were  off  in  a  trice, 
Running  along  up  the  hillside  steep 
To  the  spring  near  where  Bo-Peep  kept  her  sheep; 
And  Jack  he  filled  the  bucket  up, 
Anu  he  used  a  bright  yellow  gourd  for  a  cup; 
It  grew  in  the  field  where  the  blackbird  stayed 
That  snapped  off  the  nose  of  the  chambermaid. 

When  the  bucket  was  full  Jack  started  with  Jill 
To  carry  the  water  down  the  hill — 
Down  to  their  mother  to  make  her  tea, 
Oil,  how  merry  they  were  and  full  of  glee! 
But  poor  little  Jack  stumbled  over  a  stone, 
And  fell  down  so  hard  he  was  sure  a  bone 
Was  cracked  in  his  head,  and  then  right  after, 
Came  poor  little  Jill.     Dear  me,  such  a  sight ! 
Sweet  Jill's  pretty  apron  no  longer  was  white, 
The  bucket  was  bent,  and  all  of  the  water 
Was  spilled,  while  the  blood  from  Jack's  nose 
Trickled  over  his  face  and  over  his  clothes. 
Mamma  ran  to  help  them,  and  papa  came  too, 
And  so  did  the  Woman  who  lived  in  her  Shoe, 
And  the  man  who  had  the  little  wheelbarrow 
To  bring  home  his  wife,  as  the  streets  were  so  narrow, 
Came  running  along  and  put  both  of  them  in, 
And  they  laughed  as  they  rode  down  the  long  hill  with 
him. 

DREAMLAND.     (1884.) 

I  wandered  to  a  field  of  clover, 

Through  Summer  woods  and  grasses, 
While  the  bright  blue  sky  bent  over 

Where  the  brook's  clear  water  passes. 
And  I  hid  me  where  the  poppies 

Fringed   the   pretty   meadow, 
And  the  grand  and  spreading  oak  trees 

Dropped  their  coolest  shadow. 
Birds  were  singing  soft  above  me, 

Silver  waters  gaily  tinkled, 
And  I  chose  there  for  my  pillow 

Lovely  mosses  curled  and  crinkled; 


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Juvenile  Poems. 


Mosses  where  the  fays  and  fairies 

Sure  must  come  at  eventide, 
Where  no  thought  of  work  or  care  is, 

Where  but  happy  things  abide. 
Lying  there,  I  sailed  for  Dreamland, 

Old  King  Nod  sent  out  his  boat, 
Though  I  know  not  how  he  did  it, 

How  he  set  me  there  afloat; 
But  I  know  I  soon  was  drifting 

Out  upon  a  streamlet  wide, 
Where  the  fragrant  lilies,  lifting 

Their  white  heads  upon  the  tide, 
Filled  the  air  with  sweetest  fragrance, 

While  gay  birds  sang  overhead, 
And  in  the  dreamy  golden  distance 

Bright-winged    fairies   lightly   sped. 
Temples  grand  and  towers  were  lifted 

To  the  shining  skies  afar, 
And  on  each  fairy's  lovely  forehead 

Gleamed   a   brightly-twinkling   star. 

Rippling,  tinkling  swept  the  river 

Till  we  reached  the  Dreamland  bright, 

Where    the   lovely    grasses    quiver 
Like  a  rainbow  on  the  sight. 

Then  old  King  Xod  sung,  "Ho!  heave  ho! 

While  you  and  I  to  Dreamland  go!" 

Oh,  well  you  may  guess  that  I  opened  my  eyes 

And  looked  about  in  strange  surprise, 

For  Dreamland  has  always  something  new, 

And  never  looks  twice  the  same  to  you. 

What  did  I  see?     Oh,  wonderful  things; 

First  of  all  a  horse  with  wings, 

And  I  rode  with  him  till  we  reached  the  Moon; 

There  a  giant  sat  with  a  golden  spoon, 

So  big  it  was  it  would  hold  the  sea, 

But  he  filled  it  up  as  full  as  could  be, 

And  with  a  single  gulp  he  swallowed  down 

Soup  more  than  enough  to  feed  a  town, 

And  he  took  a  whale  at  a  single  bite, 

And  he  hid  an  elephant  out  of  sight 

In  his  smallest  vest  pocket;  a  tall  pine  tree 

He  used  for  a  toothpick,  and  I  could  see, 

Looming   up   like  mountains   tall, 

His  two  big  boots.     But  this  is  all 

About  the  Man  in  the  Moon  I  can  tell  today, 

For  just  at  this  point  I  went  away 

To  another  part  of  Dreamland  wide, 

Where  I  saw  a  ship  o'er  the  waters  glide; 

It  was  filled  with  beautiful,  fairy  things, 

With  peachbloom  faces  and  shining  wings, 

And  the  ship  sailed  out  on  a  golden  tide, 

Through  the  golden  gates  of  Dreamland  wide, 

Till  it  dropped  its  anchor  near  the  shore 

Where  stood  a  cottage  with  open  door. 

Then  out  from  the  ship  the  fairies  hied 

To  the  long,  white  beach  by  the  cottage  side, 

And  such  lovely  treasures  as  they  hid  there, 

Seeds  and  grasses  and  flowers  rare. 

And  when  this  was  done  they  sailed  away; 

Then  the  children  came  for  their  happy  play, 


And  they  dug  in  the  sands  and  they  found  the  seeds 

WThich  they  thought  had  been  scattered  by  ocean  weeds; 

But  they  said,  "Let's  plant  them,  perhaps  they'll  grow, 

We'll  try  it,  anyhow — here  we  go!" 

So  they  carried  them  up  to  the  cottage  side, 

Out  of  the  reach  of  the  highest  tide, 

And  they  dug  some  holes  and  planted  deep 

Those  wonderful  seeds  which  the  fairies  keep. 

But  what  do  you  think?     In  a  half  hour's  time 

Those  seeds  were  up  and  began  to  climb 

Away  to  the  Moon,  and  I'm  sure  today 

They  must  stretch  a  thousand  miles  away. 

Then  one  boy  said,  "I'll  take  a  bee-line 

Clear  to  the  top  of  this  wondrous  vine." 

Then  away  he  went  till  he  got  so  high 

He  looked  like  the  merest  speck  in  the  sky. 

He  went  past  the  stars  and  lost  his  way 

And  tumbled  into  the  Sun  one  day, 

And  Dreamland  folks  pretend  to  say 

That's  what  caused  the  eclipse  the  other  day. 

THE  LITTLE  MAMMA  AND  HER  DOLLIES.     (1884.) 

Oh,  dollies,  you  are  naughty, 

And  bad  as  you  can  be; 
Such  dreadful  tricks  I  am  ashamed 

And  very  sad  to  see. 

Sweet  little  Ruth,  my  bestest  doll, 

Sits  still  within  her  chair; 
She  doesn't  spill  her  bread  and  milk, 

Nor  pull  her  sister's  hair. 

I'll  put  you  in  the  closet,  Bell, 

And  there  you'll  have  to  stay, 
Because  you  struck  your  sister  Rose 

And  took  her  peach  away. 

And  naughty  Rose  I'll  put  to  bed, 

And  close  the  shutters  tight, 
And  shut  the  happy  bird-songs  out, 

And  all  the  pleasant  light. 

Now  think  of  all  that  you  have  done 

So  very  bad  today, 
Of  how  you  teased  each  other, 

And  quarreled  in  your  play; 

And  pinched  poor  Touser  till  he  barked, 

And  hurt  the  kitty,  too; 
Such  very  dreadful  naughty  ways, 

My   dollies,   will   not   do. 

But  when  you  are  truly  sorry, 

My  dollies  I  shall  be 
The  gladdest  mamma  in  the  world, 

And  you  shall  come  to  me. 

OUT-DOORS  IN  SUNLAND.     (1884.) 

Oh,  dear  little  children  of  Sunland, 

Where  Summer  stays  all  of  the  year, 
Just  gather  about  me  a  moment, 

In  our  "very  own"  corner  right  here. 


154 


The  Floicer  Maiden. 


How  pretty  and  bright  this  fair  world  is, 
Ho\v  sweet  is  the  glad  robin's  song, 

And  the  gay  little  cricket  comes  chirping, 
And  the  toad  he  is  hopping  along. 

Right  down  the  long  walk  in  my  garden 

He's  running  a  race  with  a  fly, 
And  the  foolish  fly,  now  he  has  lighted 

On  a  leaf  where  the  toad  will  come  by. 

His  wings  they  shine  like  a  rainbow, 

And  his  coat  is  a  beautiful  one, 
And  his  feet,  why,  if  I  had  so  many, 

I  am  sure  it  would  not  tire  me  to  run. 

But,  dear  me!  how   foolish  and  thoughtless 
That  fly,  to  sit  where  the  toad  came  along— 

The  toad  he  just  eyed  him  a  minute, 

Then  snapped  at  him,  and  now  he  is  gone. 

But  look!  there's  a  humming-bird!  see  it 
Right  there  on  the  lily's  white  brim, 

And  the  spider  has  spun  him  a  curtain, 
And  flung  out  a  thread  for  a  swing. 

There's  a  bee  that  is  sipping  some  honey 
Right  out  from  the  heart  of  a  rose, 

And  that  beetle  there,  I  should  think  really 
Had  a  shining  black  suit  of  new  clothes. 

And  the  ants  they  are  busy  at  building — 
I  wish  I  could  just  run  down  and  see 

What  kind  of  a  house  they  have  got  in  the  ground- 
And  whether  it's  as  neat  as  can  be. 

There's  a  butterfly  with  wings  of  bright  yellow, 
And  a  mouse  with  his  smooth  little  coat— 

And  pussy,  I  am  sure  she  is  thinking 

Of  the  nice  taste  he  would  leave  in  her  throat. 

For  she's  got  her  eyes  on  him  this  minute, 

And  now  she  is  ready  to  spring; 
Get  out,  little  mouse,  and  run  for  your  life, 

Or  pussy  will  eat  you,  poor  thing! 

The  flowers  are  nodding  their  heads  in  the  Sun, 

I  think  they  are  looking  at  me; 
And  how  sweet  they  are  smelling— the  roses 

And  the  buds  on  the  green  orange  tree! 

And  the  lily  so  white,  I  do  wonder 

If  curled  away  down  in  its  breast, 
Some  pretty  bright  fairy  is  hidden 

Away,  while  she  is  taking  her  rest. 

I  think  there  are  fairies  and  wood-nymphs 
In  this  Summer-Land  here  by  the  Sea, 

For  when  I  was  out  in  the  woods  one  day, 
I  heard  them  a-talking  to  me. 

And  one  said  "Katy-did,"  softly; 

Then  one  of  them  said  in  reply, 
"Whip-poor-will,  Whip-poor-will,  whip!" 

Till  I  was  most  ready  to  cry. 


And  I  wondered  if  Katy  was  naughty, 
And  what  that  poor  Willie  had  done, 

And  if  fairies  did  quarrel  like  children, 
And  how  the  dispute  was  begun. 

For  I  know  one  thought  it  was  Katy, 
And  the  other,  he  thought  it  was  Will, 

But  I  don't  know  how  it  was  settled, 

For  they  stopped,  and  the  woods  were  so  still: 

I  don't  think  Katy  was  punished, 

And  no  one,  I'm  sure,  whipped  poor  Will. 

But  all  at  once  up  in  the  tree-top, 

A  little  bird  sang  me  a  song, 
I  think  that  the  bird  was  a  fairy, 

For  it  sang  there  so  sweet  and  so  long. 

THE  FLOWER  MAIDEN.     (1884.) 

Out  in  the  meadows  where  the  buttercups  shone 
Like  golden  stars  in  the  grasses  grown, 
And  the  beads  of  dew  on  the  blades  of  grain 
Gleamed  and  sparkled  like  silver  rain, 
Or  beautiful  diamonds  round  and  bright, 
In   little  spheres  of  prism'd  light, 
Came  a  tiny  Maiden  tripping  along, 
With  a  voice  as  sweet  as  the  robin's  song. 
Why,  the  very  robins  stopped,  they  say, 
When  the  little  Maiden  came  that  way; 
Stopped,  and  hushed  their  beautiful  notes, 
And  kept  them  still  in  their  feathered  throats. 
"  Oh,  little  Maid,  who  are  you,  I  say, 
Coming  down  through  the  meadow  way? 
Your  bonnet  so  charming  with  green  and  gold, 
And  your  mantle  a  part  of  a  rose-leafs  fold, 
Your  dress  like  the  moonlight's  silver  sheen, 
Mixed  with  a  tint  of  the  palest  green, 
And  your  sunshade  made  of  a  pansy  sweet, 
With  little  bluebells  on  your  tiny  feet; 
Dancing  along  through  the  meadow  grass, 
Playing  hide-and-seek  with  the  bees  as  they  pass, 
Tripping  along  through  the  honeyed   clover, 
And  running  a  race  with  the  butterfly  rover, 
Laughing  to  hear  the  crickets  sing, 
Watching  the  toad  when  he  makes  his  spring 
And  catches  the  careless,  heedless  fly, 
Or  the  lady-bug  slowly  creeping  by; 
Watching  the  humming-bird  as  he  sips 
The  honey  beneath  the  lily's  tips; 
What  is  your  name,  my  lady  fair? 
Some  fairy  princess  I  think  you  are." 

At  this  she  laughed  with  a  gentle  grace, 

Till  the  dimples  showed  in  her  tiny  face, 

"Oh,  can't  you  guess  my  name,"  said  she, 

As  she  curtsied  low  and  prettily. 

"No,  I  said,  yet  your  face  I've  seen, 

Either  awake  or  in  a  dream, 

You  make  me  think  of  the  lilies  white 

That  dimpled  the  face  of  the  stream  last  night, 

When  I  sailed  away  on  the  river's  breast, 

And  the  water  lilies  closely  prest 


155 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Like  a  troop  of  fairies  round  our  way, 

And  made  the  river  sweet  as  May 

With  their  fragrant  breath."     Then  she  spoke  and  smiled : 

"Oh,  I  am  the  Water-Lily's  child, 

And  I  live  in  the  lily's  heart  of  gold, 

Wrapped  in  its  petal's  snow-white  fold, 

And  I  float  all  day  on  the  river's  breast, 

Rocked  by  the  gentle  waves  to  rest. 

It  is   not  often   I  steal   away 

To  the  meadows  green,  as  I  have  today; 

But  some  one  plucked  the  other  day 

My  lily  from  its  stem  away, 

And  now  the  lily  is  withered  quite, 

And  I  must  seek  a  home  tonight 

In  the  heart  of  some  lily  bud  that's  cold, 

And  warm  it  to  life  with  my  perfumed  soul." 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE.     (1884.) 

Down  under  the  haymow  fast  asleep, 

Just  where  the  brightest  sunbeams  peep 

And  hide  away  in  his  golden  hair, 

Lies  a  lazy  boy,  yet  he's  sweet  and  fair. 

He  has  tucked  his  hand  'neath  his  dimpled  chin, 

And  pushed  back  his  hat  with  its  great  broad  brim, 

Till  it  lies  on  his  head  like  a  golden  crown, 

And  on  it  a  butterfly  has  dropped  down, 

And  its  soft,  bright  wings  are  all  aglow, 

And  lie  on  his  hat  like  a  flake  of  snow. 

Little  boy,  little  boy,  who  are  you, 

Sleeping  all  the  morning  through? 

While  the  birds  sing  sweet  in  the  leafy  trees, 

And  the  flowers  nod  their  heads  in  the  breeze, 

And  the  happy  bees  come  buzzing  by, 

And  the  green  toad  snaps  at  the  careless  fly, 

And  the  brook  goes  singing  along  its  way 

To  the  great  big  sea,  for  it  cannot  stay 

Forever  amid  the  grasses  green, 

Nor  where  the  woods'  cool  shadows  lean. 

All  the  world,  little  boy,  but  you 

Is  stirring  around  with  something  to  do. 

Mother  birds  are  keeping  their  Summer  nests, 

And  the  butterflies  with  their  golden  crests 

Are  sipping  from  flowers  the  honey-dew, 

And  bees  are  buzzing  the  sunshine  through, 

Gathering  honey  from  every  flower; 

And  the  ants  are  busy  each  shining  hour, 

Building  away  with  grains  of  sand 

Their  snug  little  homes  all  over  the  land. 

The  flowers   are  budding   and   spreading  their   leaves, 

And  the  grain  is  growing  for  harvest  sheaves; 

Everything,  everything,  something  to  do 

This  bright,  sunny  morn,  little  boy,  but  you. 

Down  through  the  meadows,  skipping  along, 
Comes  Little  Boy  Blue,  a-blowing  his  horn; 
The  fairies,  I'm  sure,  in  the  woods  will  hear, 
He  blows  it  so  hard,  so  long  and  so  clear. 


He's  a  glad  little  boy,  and  he  woke  with  the  Sun, 
All  ready  for  mother  and  errands  to  run; 
And  now  as  he  blows  the  echoes  are  waking, 
And  over  the  hills  each  other  are  chasing. 

Down  to  green  hollows  they  wander  away, 
Then  hide  'mid  the  hills  like  fairies  at  play; 
I  think  they  are  playing  at  hide  and  at  seek, 
And  with  them,  perhaps,  is  little  Bo-Peep, 
For  ever  since  her  lost  sheep  ran  away, 
She  is  up  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  it's  day, 
Over  the  hills  where  the  grass  is  so  green, 
Or  away  in  the  woods  she  often  is  seen 
With  tears  in  her  poor  little  eyes,  they  say, 
For  the  sheep  she  loved  that  have  run  away. 

O  Little  Boy  Blue,  dear  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Blowing  your  horn  through  the  sunshine  and  dew, 

Skipping  along  through  the  meadows  so  sweet, 

With  the  red  honeyed  clover  just  hiding  your  feet, 

And  the  shining  black  cricket  chirping  away, 

As  if  it  were  singing  because  it  is  May, 

And  the  grasshopper  glad  that  the  Winter  is  over, 

Going  hoppety-jump  'mid  the  bees  in  the  clover: 

Where  is  the  little  boy  that  keeps  the  sheep? 

WThy,  he's  under  the  haymow  fast  asleep, 

So  blow  your  horn  again,  Little  Boy  Blue, 

And  I'm  sure  he'll  waken  and  come  to  you, 

Then  you  both  together  can  run  along, 

Drive  sheep   from  the  meadow  and  cows  from  the  corn. 


CASTLES  IN  SPAIN.     (1885.) 

A  little  girl  sat  in  the  attic  wide, 

Where  the  golden  sun  shone  through, 

And  only  her  dollies  were  there  beside 
And  her  little  dog  Bijou. 

There  were  big  old  chests  that  were  full  of  things, 

Of  dresses  quaint  and  old, 
And  overhead  was  a  brown  bird's  wings 

That  had  stolen  in  out  of  the  cold, 

And  built  its  nest  'neath  the  rafters  brown — 

Such  a  quaint  little  nest  to  see, 
All  lined  with  the  softest  feathery  down— 

'Twas  as  nice  as  a  nest  could  be. 

And  oh,  such  old-time  mirrors  and  things, 

And  an  old-time  spinning  wheel, 
And  a  chest  of  drawers  with  big  brass  rings, 

And  a  trunk  with  bands  of  steel. 

And  a  red  old  churn  with  a  dasher  tall, 

And  a  cradle  of  oak  was  there, 
Tucked  in  a  niche  against  the  wall, 

And  a  high-backed  rocking-chair. 

And  there  was  a  "baker"  made  of  tin, 

With  its  cover  sloping  down, 
While  bundles  of  herbs  from  the  rafters  swing 

Like  a  perfume-scented  crown. 


156 


lion:  the  Cow  Jumped  Over  the  Moon. 


And  the  little  girl  drew  the  rocking-chair 

To  the  open  window's  side, 
Through  which  came  the  pleasant  summer  air 

From  the  great,   fair  world  outside. 

Below  was  the  pretty  village  street, 

And  the  river  far  away; 
She  could  catch  its  murmur  low  and  sweet, 

And  hear  what  it  seemed  to  say. 

There  the  little  girl  sat  and  looked  away, 
As  she  leaned  on  the  window  pane, 

And  her  folded  hands  like  lilies  lay, 
As  she  built  her  castles  in   Spain. 

Her  fairy  godmother  there  she  found, 

And  placed  in  her  castle  fine, 
She  lived  in  a  room  in  its  golden  tower, 

'Neath    a    silver    lily's    vine. 

And  wide  she  swung  open  the  golden  doors 

That  led  to  its  marble  halls, 
And  like  the  sound  of  a  tinkling  bell, 

Her   lightest    footstep    falls. 

And  there  were  chambers  grand  and  wide, 

With  curtains  of  silver  sheen, 
Where  fairies  were  hidden  with  golden  wings 

And  they  peeped  from  their  folds  between. 

And  the  walls  were  covered  with  golden  dust, 

On  a  ground  of  tinted  pearl, 
And  round  every  prism'd  window  pane 

Did  perfect  rainbows  curl. 

She  wandered  on  through  the  lovely  rooms, 
And  she  climbed  to  the  turret's  top, 

Where  she  found  a  milk-white  lamb  asleep 
On  a  bed  of  forget-me-not. 

Beside  it  was  placed  a  fairy's  wand; 

It  was  leaning  against  the  wall, 
She  took  it  and  touched  the  lamb,  when  lo! 

It  changed  to  a  young  Prince  tall. 

He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  finest  stuff, 

And  he  wore  a  bright  cockade, 
And  buckles  of  diamonds  set  with  pearls, 

And  a  sword  with  a  silver  blade. 

And  his  eyes  were  blue  and  his  face  was  fair 

As  ever  should  Prince's  be, 
Like  the  finest  silk  was  his  flaxen  hair, 

And  it  reached  to  his  lace-frilled  knee. 

Then  he  smiled  and  beckoned  the  little  girl 

To  follow  him  down  the  stair, 
And  she  went  with  him,  and  he  led  her  on 

To  a  wonderful  garden  fair. 

There  were  lilies  as  tall  as  the  tallest  trees, 
And  banks  of  the  sweetest  flowers, 

And  hidden  away  in  the  depths  of  these 
Were  the  Prince's  fairv  bowers. 


A  fairy  was  there  with  a  butterfly's  wings, 
And  one  with  her  wings  of  pearl; 

And  one  with  wings  of  diamond  dust, 
Smiled  down  on  the  little  girl. 


And  there  i 
S 


there  in  the  heart  of  the  poppies  red 
ome  fairies  lay  asleep, 
While  the  lilies  were  sweet  above  their  head 
And  the  roses  at  their  feet. 

Then  she  heard  the  chime  of  silver  bells, 

And  the  fountains'  tinkling  fall, 
And  from  the  top  of  the  golden  stairs, 

Her  fairy  godmother's  call. 

And  she  danced  down  the  rose-leaf  sprinkled  walk, 

She  flew  like  a  bird  of  spring, 
And  she  climbed  the  stairs,  and  turret  doors 

Swung  wide  to  let  her  in. 

And  her  godmother  sat  in  a  violet  dress, 

With  a  white  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  her  fairy  wand  in  her  milk-white  hand, 

And  her  face  was  very  fair. 

And  there  were  four  little  mice  at  play 

In  a  pumpkin's  hollow  side; 
One  touch  of  her  wand,  and  horses  four 

Stood  fit  for  a  Prince  to  ride. 

To  a  wonderful  coach  the  pumpkin  turned, 

With  its  silken  curtained  door, 
And  the  horses  pranced  with  their  silver  bits 

Over  the  turret's  floor. 

Then  the  godmother  opened  her  window  wide, 

And  her  magical  wand  she  waved, 
And  a  beautiful  road  stretched  down  to  the  ground, 

With  hyacinth  blossoms  paved. 

And  the  Prince  got  in  and  the  maiden  too, 

And  down  this  road  they  ride, 
Through  all  the  beautiful  garden  land, 

They  sit  there  side  by  side. 

And  the  happy  laugh  of  the  little  girl 

Floats  over  the  beautiful  plain, 
As  she  rides  with  her  Prince  that  Summer  day 

In  sight  of  her  castles  in  Spain. 


HOW  THE  COW  JUMPED  OVER  THE  MOON.  (1885.) 

Old  Mother  Goose  is  a  queer  old  lady, 

More  than  a  hundred,  I'm  sure  is  she, 

Yet  she  sings  her  songs  for  you  and  me 

Just  as  she  sang  in  our  grandmother's  time. 

And  she  tells  us  the  queerest  tales  in  rhyme. 

Oh,  don't  you  wish  you  had  lived  to  see 

The  cat  in  the  fiddle?  —  how  funny  she'd  look 

Shut  in  there  tight  as  a  leaf  in  a  book  ! 

But  of  all  the  strange  and  queer  things  she  has  told  us, 

I  should  like  to  have  seen,  when  the  moon  shone  so  bright, 

The  cow  that  jumped  over  it.     I  wonder  if  right 

Over  its  top  with  a  single  bound 


157 


Juvenile  Poems. 


She  nimbly  jumped  and  came  down  on  the  ground 

On  the  other  side?     And  I  wish  that  I  knew 

What  she  saw  on  her  way  the  high  skies  through. 

I  fancy  I  see  her  where  the  grasses  grew 

In  the  meadows  green,  where  a  brook  runs  through, 

Whisking  her  tail  in  a  dreamy  way, 

With  her  eyes  half  shut  at  the  close  of  day. 

The  bees  had  forgotten  to  buzz,  and  the  flies 

Were  hidden  away  somewhere  in  the  skies — 

Just  where  the  softening  twilight  fell 

Round  the  leaves  and  the  flowers — on  the  breast  of  the  dark 

They  had  fallen  asleep,  and  never  a  bark 

From  a  dog  was  heard,  nor  the  sound  of  a  bird, 

Nor  the  chirp  of  a  cricket  the  silence  stirred. 

But  all  at  once  there  came  a  shout, 

And  the  cow  stood  up  and  looked  about; 

Oh,  what  a  frolicking,  rollicking  noise, 

Such  shouts  of  laughter  from  girls  and  boys ! 

'Twas  a  funny  sight  they  looked  to  see, 

And  I  don't  wonder  they  laughed  so  merrily, 

For  never  a  queerer  sight  was  seen 

Than  that  race  which  was  run  through  the  meadows  green. 

A  bright  tin  dish  was  running  away 

Without  any  legs,  yet  it  could  not  stay 

For  want  of  them.     Down  looked  the  moon 

To  see  the  dish  run  away  with  the  spoon, 

Which  shook  about  with  a  helpless  air 

As  it  clung  to  the  dish  with  a  frightened  stare; 

But  the  dish  ran  on  till  'twas  out  of  sight, 

Perhaps  till  the  night  had  ended  quite. 

Then  the  old  cow  thought,  "I'll  have  my  fun," 

As  she  stood  by  the  banks  where  the  waters  run; 

And  she  whisked  her  tail  and  ran  about, 

Like  a  happy  calf  while  the  children  shout, 

And  blow  their  horns  with  noisy  toots, 

And  the  cow,  like  the  man  with  seven-league  boots, 

Gave  an  awful  jump  right  over  the  moon, 

And  fell  into  the  dish  that  ran  away  with  the  spoon; 

But  the  moon  she  jumped  over  was  the  one,  I  ween, 

That  down  in  the  bright  running  water  was  seen. 


"JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT."     (1885.) 

Down  in  the  woods  where  the  wild-flowers  grew, 

And  a  happy  brook  came  running  through, 

With  a  voice  like  the  chime  of  a  silvery  bell, 

There  was  a  lovely  spot  like  a  fairy's  dell. 

Here  Jack-in-the-Pulpit  could  be  found 

In  the  midst  of  the  blossoms  gathered  'round, 

As  if  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say, 

Standing  straight  and  trim  in  a  priestly  way. 

Here  grew  the  birches  tall  and  slim, 

Like  ghosts  come  down  from  the  old  past  dim, 

Wrapped  in  their  bark  so  thin  and  white, 

Which  the  children  gathered  in  glad  delight 

For  their  bark  canoes — the  cunning  craft 

Rigged  like  a  ship  both  fore  and  aft. 

And  here,  too,  checkerberries  red  and  round 

By  the  bucketful  'neath  the  trees  were  found; 

And  the  merry  grasshopper  hopped  about, 


And  from  mosses  green  the  toad  looked  out. 

'Twas  a  lovely  spot !  and  the  sky  looked  down 

Into  the  water  without  a  frown. 

Never  a  cloud  in  the  deep  blue  air 

Never  a  day  that  was  more  fair 

Than  the  merry  May-day,  cool  and  sweet, 

Right  irT  the  heart  of  the  forest  deep. 

Down  through  the  aisles  of  forest  shade, 

With  a  heart  as  glad  as  the  music  made 

By  the  happy  birds,  with  step  as  free 

As  the  squirrel's  climbing  the  acorn  tree, 

Came  dear  little  Jean  with  her  sunny  face 

To  the  side  of  the  brook,  where  she  found  a  place 

On  the  soft  green  moss  to  rest  awhile; 

For  her  pillow  she  gathered  a  little  pile 

Of  weeds  and  blossoms,  then  down  she  lay, 

Like  a  fresh,  sweet  flower  in  the  wooded  May. 

"Oh,  Jack-in-the-Pulpit,  I  see  you,"  said  she, 

"  And  I  wish  you  would  preach  a  sermon  for  me ; 

What  do  you  talk  about,  anyhow — 

Just  tell  me,  please,  sir,  won't  you  now? 

Do  you  understand  what  the  honey-bee's  saying 

When  he  buzzes  about  and  goes  a-Maying? 

And  the  butterfly  there  with  golden  wings 

Folded,  while  he  on  the  daisy  swings; 

And  the  cricket  chirping  so  soft  and  low, 

And  the  busy  ants  that  come  and  go? 

I'd  like  to  know  what  they're  talking  about 

As  they  run  from  their  houses  in  and  out." 

Then  Jack  turned  round  as  if  he  heard, 

While  the  summer  breeze  his  pulpit  stirred, 

And  Jean  was  sure  she  saw  him  smile 

And  come  down  from  his  pulpit  and  kneel  awhile 

On  the  moss  beside  her — his  face  was  brown 

And  on  his  lip  the  softest  down 

Of  a  mustache  showed,  and  his  eyes  were  bright, 

But  full  of  a  tender,  loving  light. 

He  looked  like  a  preacher  good  and  true, 

Willing  to  tell  the  things  he  knew. 

"I  talk  of  this  wonderful,  wonderful  world, 

With  the  shining  sky  above  it  curled 

Like  another  sea  so  blue  and  deep, 

With  its  isle-like  stars  with  their  mighty  sweep 

Through  the  realms  of  space  so  grand  and  wide, 

Yet  God's  hand  clasps  them  on  every  side; 

And  I  talk  of  the  flowers,  which  I  dream  may  be 

God's  whisper  of  love  to  you  and  to  me; 

Of  the  running  brook  with  its  simple  song 

Rippling  and  tinkling  all  along 

Through  the  forest  ways  so  cool  and  wide; 

Of  the  trees  which  stand  on  every  side, 

Their  highest  tops  by  the  sunlight  crowned 

While  they  drop  their  coolest  shadows  round; 

Of  the  happy  life  of  bee  and  bird, 

Of  the  murmurous  hum  by  the  insects  stirred, 

And  over  it  all,  at  last  I  say, 

God  keeps  loving  watch  by  night  and  day." 


158 


What  the  Child  Said. 


"Oh,  I  thank  you,  Jack,"  said  little  Jean, 
"You're  the  kindest  preacher  I've  ever  seen, 
To  tell  me  all  that  you  talk  about 
When  your  lovely  forest  folk  are  out. 
And  say,  does  the  butterfly  stop  to  hear, 
And  the  honey-bee,  does  he  come  near, 
And  the  little  ants  and  crickets,  too— 
Do  all  of  these  come  and  listen  to  you  ? " 

"Yes,  darling,"  said  Jack,  "though  the  forest  is  wide, 
My  sermon  is  heard  on  every  side, 
And  when  I  am  done,  'twould  please  you  to  hear 
Ev'rything  whisper  amen,  so  low,  yet' so  clear, 
Tis  like  music,  and  all  the  whole  forest  is  stirred 
In  its  tremulous  hush,  as  if  song  of  a  bird 
Had  dropped  in  soft  echoes  everywhere, 
Like  a  rain  of  sweet  sounds  filling  all  of  the  air. 
Then  the  butterfly  floats  like  a  blossom  of  light 
Through  the  paths  of  the  sunshine  so  golden  and  bright— 
'My  work  is  to  brighten  the  soft  summer  air, 
And  to  love  Him  who  made  me  so  free  from  all  care.' 
Then  up  rises  the  lark  with  wings  spread  for  the  sky— 
'My  work  is  to  sing  God's  love  as  I  fly.' 
Ana  the  ant  says:     'The  sluggard  may  learn  to  be  wise 
If,  like  me,  he  improves  each  moment  that  flies.' 
And  the  bee:   'Mine  is  to  gather  the  sweets  from  the  flowers, 
To  make  honey  for  man  through  the  long  summer  hours.' 
And  with  faces  so  timid  the  blossoms  look  round— 
'And  ours  is  to  cover  with  beauty  the  ground.' 
Ano  the  little  brook  murmurs,  'My  work  is  to  bless 
And  make  green  all  the  ways  of  the  wild  wilderness.' 
But  there,  little  Jean,  a  sunbeam  I  see 
Right  down  in  the  glen  which  is  beckoning  to  me; 
I  must  run  back  to  my  pulpit  again,  so  good  day, 
Come  and  see  me  whenever  you  come  down  this  way." 
Then  up  sat  little  Jean,  and  Jack  stood  in  his  place- 
In  his  queer  little  pulpit,  with  stateliest  grace, 
And  he  looked  as  if  he  never  had  stirred  from  the  spot, 
But  how  did  he  talk  to  Jean  if  he  had  not? 

WHAT  THE  CHILD  SAID. 
"Mamma,  is  Dod  cryin'?     Oh,  look  quick! 
I  tannot  tee  a  star,  an'  all  'e  pritty  blue 
Is  tovered  up;  an'  tee  how  werry  thick 
'E  tears  are  tumin'!  I  fmk  Dod— don't  'oo?— 
Tood  not  ky  all  of  'em.     I  spect  'e  angels,  too, 
Feel  bad  'tause  Dod  does.     Mamma,  I  will  tay 
A  'ittle  prayer.     Pease  Dod,  don't  ky,  an'  I 
Will  be  so  dood,  an'  love  'oo  so;  I'll  never  play 
On  Sunny  any  more.     An'  pritty  angels, 
I'll  turn  to  'oo  turn  day  an'  be  an  angel,  too, 
Ony  don't  ky,  'tause  it  makes  'e  sky  look  black, 
An'  all  'e  pritty  stars  'a  hide  away, 
An'  'e  poor  Moon,  I  fink  she  off  'e  track, 
An'  I'se  afraid !  O  mamma,  will  'e  world  die, 
An'  'oo  an'  mc  be  dead  'tause  Dod  an'  all  'e  angels  ky?" 

A  LITTLE  MAIDEN.     (1885.) 
Fair  and  sweet,  fair  and  sweet, 

Roamed  a  little  maiden; 
On  her  head  a  buttercup, 

And  her  arm  was  laden 


With  a  paddle  for  her  boat, 

Long  and  green  and  slender, 
Leg  of  grasshopper,  I  ween, 

Young  and  very  tender. 
With  a  clamshell  for  her  boat, 

The  little  maid  set  sailing, 
While  her  playmates  on  the  shore 

Raised  a  bitter  wailing. 
Fair  and  sweet,  full  of  joy, 

Sailed  the  little  maiden,* 
And  with  gold  and  tiny  pearls 

Her  little  sloop  was  laden. 
All  the  waters  smiled  about  her, 
And  the  little  fishes  spied  her, 
And  they  came  in  tiny  shoals 

And  floated  on  beside  her. 
Some  pushed  on  the  little  boat, 

Some  swam  on  before  it, 
And  when  blew  the  lightest  wind, 

Everyone  watched  o'er  it. 
Fair  and  sweet,  bright  as  May, 

Smiled  the  little  maiden, 
As  she  thought  of  Fairy  Land 

And  its  pleasant  haven. 
Honey  bees  spread  wings  above  her, 

Butterflies  they  fluttered, 
And  by  happy  singing  birds 

Sweetest  songs  were  uttered. 
And  from  out  the  summer  sky 

Gentle  winds  were  bending, 
As  their  breath  the  little  boat 

On  its  way  was  sending. 
Fair  and  sweet,  glad  and  gay, 

Spake  the  little  maiden: 
"Almost  there,  swift  I  sail 

To  the  fairies'  haven." 
Little  mermaids  helped  her  row. 

O'er  the  silver  water, 
Till  the  golden  sunset  fell 
On  the  sea  athwart  her. 
Then  she  saw  an  open  door, 

And  beyond  it  lying 
All  the  golden  fairy  isles, 
In  the  sunshine  smiling. 
Fair  and  sweet,  like  a  bell, 

Rang  her  happy  laughter, 
Through  the  West  her  little  boat 

Sailed  a  moment  after. 
Floating  on  the  silver  waves, 
There  the  fairies  spied  her. 
When  they  reached  the  happy  isles 

All  the  bells  were  ringing, 
And  from  palm  and  orange  trees 

Bright-winged  birds  were  singing. 
Fair  and  sweet !  O  how  bright, 

In  the  fairy  haven, 
Were  the  smiles  on  the  face 

Of  the  little  maiden. 
To  a  table  in  the  wood 
All  the  fairies  brought  her, 


159 


Juvenile  Poems. 


In  a  chair  of  gold  she  sat, 

Like  the  Queen's  own  daughter. 

With  cakes  of  perfume  from  th'  rose 
Her  pretty  plate  was  laden; 

Honey  dew  and  lily  wine 
Drank  the  little  maiden. 

THE  BOY  THE  ANGELS  LOVED.     (1887.) 
A  little  child  was  sitting  in  the  moonlight  dark, 

A  great,  grand  house  behind  him.    On  the  broad  stone 
Step,  the  stars  above  his  head,  he  sat  alone. 
The  summer  air  was  full  of  fire-flies,  and  their  spark 

Lit  up,  like  fairy  lanterns,  all  the  trees, 

'Twas  in  the  country  that  the  great  house  stood, 
Amid  the  flowers  that  all  the  honey-bees 

Found  every  morn  with  sweetest  honey  filled, 
And  stole  the  honey  for  their  waxen  cells. 

The  crickets  wandered  'mid  the  grass  and  trilled 
At  eventide  their  merry,  chirping  notes. 

And  there,  within  the  garden,  were  the  wells 
Filled  with  the  crystal  water,  and  the  boats 

Lay  on  the  lake  beyond  the  garden  wall; 
And  'mid  the  water-lilies  were  the  swans, 

White-breasted  and  white-winged,  and  with  white  throats 
Reflected  in  the  shining  silver  of  the  lake, 

Where  waters  rippled  round  the  grassy  lawns, 
And  in  the  trees  the  birds  their  nests  did  make, 

And  wakened  every  lovely  summer  morn 
The  dear  child  from  his  slumbers,  singing  sweet; 

And  roses  climbed  above  the  garden-wall, 
And  daisies  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet, 

And  apple  trees  let  cooling  shadows  fall. 

This  little  child  was  lonely,  and  every  night 

He  used  to  ask  his  nurse's  leave  to  go 
And  sit  alone,  and  watch  from  out  his  sight 

The  sun  sink  down  the  western  hills  below. 
And  see  the  stars  from  out  the  sky  so  blue 

Come  like  an  army;  he  had  learned  to  know 
Bright  Venus  as  she  came  twinkling  through, 

And  Orion,  that  "belted  giant  of  the  skies," 
And  the  Great  Bear  that  guards  the  frozen  North; 

And  when  he  saw  the  round,  full  moon  arise 
Hanging  above  the  lake,  and  coming  forth 

So  full  of  light,  he  used  to  say  in  low 
Sweet  tones  unto  himself,  "I  wish  that  I  could  see 

The  angel  who  lifts  up  the  moon  when  he  does  go, 
With  his  great  wings  outspread  so  wide  and  free, 

Back  through  the  blue  sky's  door,  for  I  do  know 
There  must  be  there  a  door  that  opens  wide, 

All  hinged  with  stars  for  angels  to  come  through." 
He  watched  the  moonlight  on  the  silvery  tide 

Of  the  still  lake — upon  its  waters  blue 
A  golden  pathways-then  a  white  swan  stirred, 

And  he  was  sure  an  angel's  wing  was  there. 
In  the  far  woods  a  nightingale  he  heard, 

Its  sad  song  filling  all  the  evening  air; 
But  then  he  loved  it,  and  it  made  him  dream 

The  birds  were  telling  him  some  unknown  story 
Of  stars  and  sky  and  running  mountain  stream, 

Or  of  the  moonlight's  clear  and  shining  glory. 


The  child  was  a  rare  poet,  yet  all  unlearned  to  sing, 
Full  of  sweet  fancies  and  of  loving  grace; 

A  sweet  earth  angel,  though  with  hidden  wing, 
With  heaven's  own  beauty  shining  in  his  face. 

That  night  his  heart  was  full  of  longing  deep 

For  heaven.     The  mother  who  had  loved  him,  she  was 
there; 

He  missed  her  tender  smile  and  kisses  sweet, 
And  her  soft  touch  upon  his  sunny  hair. 

It  was  but  a  few  weeks  since  she  had  passed; 

The  round  full  moon  shone  brightly  then  as  now; 
Its  light  touched  first  her  face,  and  then  at  last 

Filled  all  the  room,  and  there,  as  white  as  snow, 
Her  face  upon  the  pillow,  she  had  lain  so  still 

While  he  had  kissed  her,  and  his  papa  said, 
Amid  his  sobs,  that  all  the  room  did  fill, 

"Mamma  has  gone  to  heaven — she  is  not  dead." 

And  as  he  thought  of  this  and  saw  the  light 

Of  the  full  moon  upon  the  still  lake  lying, 
Like  a  broad  golden  pathway  to  his  sight, 

His  thoughts  came  swift,  his  eager  eyes  were  spying 
If  haply  he  might  find  some  pathway  bright 

Leading  to  heaven  and  to  his  mother's  breast, 
Where,  folded  in  her  arms,  in  heaven's  own  light, 

Glad  in  her  love,  he  could  forever  rest. 

And  so  he  went  with  light  and  hurried  feet 

Adown  the  garden  walk.     The  lily  white 
Bent  its  pure  head,  and  poured  its  fragrance  sweet, 

And  lovely  roses  blushed  within  the  light, 
And  pretty  pansies  in  their  velvet  dress 

Lay  down  the  way  with  faces  very  fair, 
With  gold  and  purple  round  their  shoulders  prest, 

While  dewdrops  lay  like  diamonds  everywhere. 

The  little  wicket  on  its  hinges  swung, 

And  he  passed  through  it  while  the  lilies  gleam 
Upon  the  lake  and  beckon  him  to  come. 

He  heard  the  singing  of  the  little  stream 
That  filled  its  bosom  with  its  waters  clear; 

He  heard  the  soft  breeze  sighing  'mid  the  trees, 
And  he  was  sure  the  angels  must  be  near, 

Stirring  the  leaves  with  their  sweet  symphonies. 

Down  the  white-pebbled  pathway  to  the  lake 

He  went;  the  bending  blades  of  grass, 
Stirred  by  the  night-wind,  their  low  whispers  make, 

And  as  he  goes  the  sweet-briar  sees  him  pass. 

Upon  the  rippling  water's  brink  it  lay — 

His  little  boat— like  a  pink-tinted  shell 
With  slender  oars — a  fairy  fay 

Might  almost  push  it  o'er  the  tiny  swell 
Of  the  light  waves  that  ran  along  the  shore 

Like  sound  of  lightest  laughter.     His  dimpled  hand 
Looses  the  boat;  he  takes  the  oars  once  more, 

And  rows  away,  light-hearted  from  the  land. 

Broad  lies  the  golden  moonlight  on  the  lake, 

It  stretches  onward  far  as  he  can  see, 
The  child  rows  on  the  golden  path  to  take, 

The  way  to  heaven  he's  sure  that  it  must  be. 


160 


The  Boy  the  Angels  Loved. 


Soon  he  has  reached  it;  moonbeams  his  pathway  pave 
With  golden  light;  the  water  shines  and  gleams, 

And  water-lilies  nestle  on  the  wave. 

Heaven  must  be  very  near  to  him,  he  deems. 

On,  on  and  on,  the  shining  pathway  o'er, 

Till  his  weak  arms  grow  weary  with  the  strain; 

Farther  behind  him  lies  the  pleasant  shore, 
Brighter  the  moonbeams  that  around  him  rain. 

"I  must  be  almost  there;  heaven  can't  be  far," 
His  sweet  lips  murmur,  and  then  bending  low, 

Over  the  boat's  side  he  sees  a  shining  star, 
Mirrored  within  the  waters  deep  belo%v. 

And  then  he  wonders,  can  that  bright  star  be 
The  handle  to  heaven's  door;  the  gold  runs  deep, 

It  shines  far  down  there,  far  as  I  can  see, 
And  there  I  see  the  lilies  lie  asleep. 

He  leans  far  over,  eager  in  his  heart, 

His  little  loving  heart,  to  find  the  way 
To  heaven  and  mother.     Too  far  he  leans;  the  waters  part, 

Xo  hand  is  there  his  sinking  form  to  stay. 

Down,  down  among  the  water-lilies  white 
With  one  faint  cry  from  out  his  infant  lips, 

From  the  boat's  side  he  falls  and  sinks  from  sight 
Among  the  many  swaying  lily-tips. 

He  lies  at  last  with  blue,  wide-open  eyes, 

H.e  lifts  his  hands,  and  then  he  lets  them  fall. 

The  blessed  angels,  leaning  from  the  skies, 
Open  heaven's  door  in  answer  to  his  call. 

But  soon  his  father,  missing  his  sweet  face, 

Comes  out  upon  the  stone  steps  where  he  loved  to  sit, 

Thinking  to  find  him  in  his  usual  place 

Watching  the  stars,  yet  wondering  much  at  it 

To  find  him  gone,  but  still  he  thinks  his  feet 
Have  only  wandered  down  the  garden  walk, 

Some  little  bud  or  blooming  rose  to  seek, 
Or  some  white  lily  on  its  bending  stalk. 

"Darling,"  he  calls,  "come  in  to  papa  now, 

And    tell    him    what    you've    found    among    the    stars 

tonight." 
And  then  he  smiles,  while  fondly  thinking  how 

His  child's  sweet  fancies  wander,  as  if  his  spirit  sight 
Were  visioned  large.     "I  sometimes  think,"  says  he, 

"The  child  lives  half  in  heaven,  he  is  so  strange; 
His  pure  young  thoughts  they  seem  to  be 

Forever  there,  and  they  have  larger  range 
Than  childhood's  wont."     And  then  he  listened, 

But  no  sound  he  heard  of  little  feet  returning  at  his  call, 
And  the  bright,  dew-like  human  teardrops  glistened, 

And  a  wild  fear  upon  his  heart  did  fall. 

Swift  to  the  garden  ran  he — not  a  sound 

Broke  the  deep  silence — just  the  echoes  came, 

The  mocking  echoes,  ever  wandering  'round, 
And  shouting  back  to  him  his  darling's  name. 


Xot  in  the  garden!  then  the  open  gate 

Caught  his  quick  eye;  his  heart  stood  still  with  dread, 
"O  help  me,  heaven,  if  I  should  be  too  late! 

And  then  with  swift  feet  down  the  path  he  sped. 
He  missed  the  little  boat,  then  looking  away 

Over  the  still  water  he  saw  a  speck  afloat — 
In  the  clear  moonlight  all  adrift  it  lay, 

But  still  he  knew  it  was  his  dear  boy's  boat. 

How  swift  he  leaped  his  own  strong  boat  into, 
And  pushed  it  off  with  oars  that  seemed  to  tear 

The  still  lake's  breast,  as  leaping  on  it  flew, 
Sent  by  the  swift  strokes  of  his  wild  despair. 

He  reached  the  spot,  his  child's  boat  empty  lay, 

Filled  but  with  moonlight;  a  swift  shudder  ran 
Through  all  his  veins,  and  then  away, 

As  his  hot,  eager  eyes  did  scan 

The  treacherous  water,  he  saw  some  white  thing  rise. 
Two  swift,  strong  strokes  and  he  was  reaching  down,  hi.' 
eyes 

Following  his  hands,  which  were  so  quick  to  take 
Their  burden.     A  little  head  with  golden  tresses  bright, 

A  fair,  sweet  face  with  open  eyes  of  blue, 
A  dead,  limp  form,  'twas  this  that  met  his  sight 

And  stabbed  his  heart  with  anguish  through  and  through 

Ah,  there  was  sorrow  in  his  home  that  night, 

Where  in  his  little  shroud  the  dear  boy  slept, 
With  fragrant  lilies  round  and  roses  white, 

Where  floods  of  moonlight  all  about  him  crept 
Over  his  folded  hands  so  cold  and  white, 

With  dimpled  fingers  laid  upon  his  breast, 
And  golden  hair  soft  shining  in  the  light 

While  lying  breathless  in  his  dreamless  rest. 

Only  one  way,  dear  children,  for  us  all, 

One  way  to  heaven;  we  cannot  go 
O'er  golden  paths  where  moonbeams  fall; 
We  cannot  climb  up  starlit  wall 

To  find  the  door;  it  is  not  so. 
God  leads  us  there.     We  go  away 

With  silent  lips  and  close-shut  eyes, 
And  friends  look  on  us,  and  they  say 

"Alas!  alas!  our  darling  dies." 

'Tis  then,  'tis  then  the  door  we  find, 

And  leave  our  useless  bodies  here, 
Just  as  the  dull  worm  leaves  behind 

The  dead  and  useless  form  it  wore; 
And  from  its  cell-like  prison  springs 
A  glorious  butterfly  with  wings. 
Just  one  step  in  the  dark  we  take, 

And,  lo !  uprising  close  before, 
While  blessed  angels  round  it  wait, 

We  see  heaven's  widely-open  door. 

THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  CHRISTMAS.     (1887.) 

Everybody  asleep,  everybody  abed; 
Here  in  one  chamber  a  bright,  golden  head, 
With  eyelids  like  lilies,  and  lashes  that  gleam 
Like  the  brightest  of  gold  in  the  summer  sunbeam. 
And  there  is  a  head  with  its  brown  chestnut  curls, 


101 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Which  belongs,  I  am  sure,  to  the  sweetest  of  girls. 
And  there  is  another  with  locks  black  as  the  night, 
With  a  fat  little  fist  almost  hidden  from  sight 
'Neath  the  round  dimpled  chin,  where,  tucked  softly  away, 
Pussy  well  might  suppose  it  a  ball  for  her  play, 
So  round  and  so  soft  and  so  fluffy  it  lay. 
Very  dim  was  the  light  in  the  burners  just  then, 
And  in  the  Dreamland  of  Nod  were  these  dear  little  men ; 
And  somewhere  away  in  the  land  of  delight 
Was  the  chestnut-haired  darling,  so  dimpled  and  white. 
Xot  a  mouse  was  astir,  not  a  leaf  on  the  tree, 
And  mamma  was  sleeping  as  sound  as  could  be, 
When  all  of  a  sudden,  just  outside  in  the  light, 
The  Moon  saw  a  strange  and  wonderful  sight- 
On  a  bit  of  white  fog  that  came  in  from  the  Sea, 
Floating  round  where  the  top  of  the  chimney  must  be, 
Was  the  loveliest  sleigh  made  of  rainbows  and  pearl, 
And  harnessed  to  reindeers  with  horns  that  did  curl 
Into  cunningest  curves,  each  branching  so  grand; 
And  sitting  behind  them,  with  the  lines  in  his  hand, 
Sat  the  funniest  old  fellow,  dressed  in  fur  to  his  chin, 
With  a  coat  full  of  pockets  without  and  within. 
How  he  chuckled  and  laughed  to  himself  as  he  rode; 
How  he  haw-hawed  and  he-he'd,  as  if  he'd  explode ! 
Not  a  house  that  he  passed  but  he  managed  to  peep 
Into  the  windows  somehow  to  see  if  asleep 
Were  the  parents  and  children,  and  then  he  would  feel 
Of  his  pockets  and  parcels,  then  up  he  would  steal 
To  the  very  house-top,  and  there  on  the  sly, 
Right  up  to  the  mouth  of  the  chimney  he'd  hie, 
And  down  he  would  slide  right  into  the  house. 
And  make  his  way  round  as  still  as  a  mouse. 
He  would  fill  up  the  stockings  and  fill  up  the  tree, 
Yet  still  were  his  pockets  as  full  as  could  be, 
And  never  a  child  but  he  kissed  ere  he  went 
Away  from  its  chambers,  and  always  he  lent 
It  a  dream  to  dream  sweetly  till  the  night  hours  were  done, 
And  the  children  woke  up  to  find  Christmas  had  come. 


A  LITTLE  MAID.     (1887.) 

Adown  the  garden  way  there  went 

A  little  maid  in  glad  content ; 

The  butterflies  with  golden  wings, 

And  all  the  world's  sweet,  fragrant  things, 

The  happy  birds  with  throats  of  song, 

Were  with  her  all  her  steps  along. 

The  lovely  silver  of  the  brook 
She  for  her  morning  mirror  took, 
And  bending  low  above  the  wave, 
With  its  cool  waters,  did  she  lave 
Her  dimpled  face,  whose  cheek  and  chin 
Gleamed  very  fair  the  water  in. 

And  there,  like  golden  threads  of  light, 
Shone  her  soft  tresses  to  her  sight; 
The  long,  soft,  shining  golden  curls 
Seemed  swaying  in  the  eddies'  whirls, 
As  bending  downward  she  did  look 
To  see  her  picture  in  the  brook. 


The  violets,  dewy-eyed  and  fair, 
Grew  in  their  sweetness  everywhere 
Upon  the  mossy  bank  where  she 
Knelt  in  her  childish  ecstacy; 
And  buttercups  with  golden  gleam 
Nodded  their  heads  beside  the  stream. 

From  off  her  feet  her  shoes  she  took 
To  wade  within  the  silver  brook; 
And  down  the  pebbled  way  she  went 
In  fullness  of  her  glad  content. 
The  ripples  round  her  ankles  flow. 
And  murmur  music  as  they  go. 

Her  little  feet  like  lilies  gleam 
Within  the  crystal  of  the  stream; 
Her  laughter  mingles  with  the  notes 
Poured  from  a  hundred  feathered  throats, 
Which,  like  a  tidal-wave  of  song, 
From  the  high  tree-tops  sweeps  along. 

With  laughter  and  with  song  she  went, 
A  little  blossom  of  content; 
Her  cheeks  like  rose-leaves  softly  red; 
Like  gleaming  buttercups  her  head; 
Like  violets,  just  touched  with  dew, 
'Neath  lily  lids,  her  eyes  of  blue. 

A  CHILD  AGAIN.     (1891.) 

Sweet  fancy  makes  me  once  again  a  child, 
Glad  in  the  green  fields  and  fair  June  meadows  sweet, 

Starred  with  the  buttercups  and  daisies  wild 
Where  thistledown  goes  flying  at  my  feet. 

I'll  find  again,  amid  the  grasses  hid, 

The  groundbird's  nest,  and  watch  the  cricket  play, 
And  listen  to  the  music  of  the  katydid, 

And  hear  the  nightingale  sing  far  away. 

I  see  the  woods  behind  the  meadowland, 

I  hear  the  music  of  the  running  brook, 
And  shoulder  high  amid  the  grass  I  stand, 

With  leaf  and  blossom,  each  an  open  book. 

Come  to  the  hillside  looking  to  the  East, 
The  road  runs  just  beyond  it,  and  the  pines 

Rise  cool  and  green,  and  to  a  welcome  feast 
Beckon  the  berries,  where  a  cool  spring  shines. 

The  air  is  full  of  aromatic  sweet, 

Of  piney  odors  and  the  happy  tunes 
Of  bird  and  bee,  and  everything  we  meet 

Seems  breathing  music  through  these  afternoons. 

"Jack-in-the-Pulpit,"  in  the  shadow  dim 

Of  the  deep  wood,  is  standing  by  the  stream 

That  sings  his  psalms ;  I  wonder  if  by  him 

The  flowers  are  soothed  when  anything  alarms. 

The  tall  white  birch-tree  rises  close  at  hand; 

From  out  its  bark  we'll  form  a  pretty  cup, 
And  there  above  the  little  line  of  sand 

Grow  berries  red  with  which  to  fill  it  up. 


162 


Mi/  Bunny. 


And  there  are  acorns  on  the  old  oak  boughs, 
With  "cups  and  saucers"  for  our  happy  play; 

The  black  and  yellow  caterpillar  plows 

Through  fallen  leaves  his  quiet,  happy  way. 

1  find  an  apple  in  my  pocket  stored; 

With  pieces  small  I  fill  my  acorn  cup, 
And  in  the  saucer  water  drops  I've  poured, 

And  you  and  I  will  sit  and  drink  them  up. 

And  now,  green-coated  and  with  yellow  vest, 
A  great  toad  comes  and  stares  at  us  awhile, 

And  overhead  a  bird  has  built  its  nest, 
As  if  to  watch  the  opening  blossoms  smile. 

We  make  believe,  oh,  that  indeed  is  sweet ! — 

This  "make  believe"  of  happy  childhood's  hours — 

That  we  are  grown-up  folks,  and  for  our  feet 
We  have  a  carpet  wrought  of  moss  and  flowers. 

The  massive  boulders  wall  our  parlor  in, 
Between  their  sides  the  cooling  shadows  lie, 

And  in  one  corner  does  the  spider  spin 
A  silken  curtain  'twixt  us  and  the  sky. 

The  smaller  rocks  make  tables  for  our  stores, 
And  stools  on  which  to  sit;  the  bee,  we  say, 

We've  sent  for  honey  through  the  forest  doors 
That  open  wide  to  flowery  hills  away. 

The  golden  butterflies  are  winged  with  light; 

The  merry  cricket's  chirp  is  sounding  clear, 
We  pause  to  watch  the  happy  robin's  flight, 

And  the  ant  army  that  is  coming  near. 

The  "pussy  willows"  on  their  branches  shine, 
The  dandelions  look  up  with  yellow  face, 

And  clinging  vines  about  the  old  rocks  twine, 
And  overhead  the  squirrels  run  a  race. 

Our  dinner  plates  are  made  of  green  oak  leaves, 

For  tablecloth  a  bit  of  paper  spread, 
And  never  were  there  sweeter  nuts  than  these 

In  the  green  beech  boughs  just  above  our  head. 

Our  apple  then  we  cut  in  many  shapes, 

And  with  our  "make  believe"  we  change  them  there, 
Some  into  white  bread,  some  to  tempting  cakes, 

And  all  things  wanted  for  our  bill  of  fare. 

Our  dinner  over  and  away  we  run, 

Down  to  the  beach  "to  wade,"  and  soon  you  see 
Our  shoes  and  stockings  on  the  green  banks  flung, 

And  hear  the  echo  of  our  careless  glee. 

And  then  the  swings  among  the  forest  trees ! 

The  glad  see-saws,  the  hop  and  skip  away; 
The  blind-man's  buff.     Oh,  pleasures  such  as  these 

Fill  full  of  gladness  all  the  summer  day. 

And  then  at  home  our  mother's  dress  we  don, 

And  go  a-calling  just  across  the  room, 
And  our  tall  husband  papa's  coat  puts  on, 

And  how  we  love  him,  though  he's  just  a  broom. 


Our  dolls  we  dress  and  take  them  out  to  ride, 

Down  still,  green  lanes,  all  bright  witli  flowers  and  dcv 

And  tell  each  other  with  a  mother's  pride 
The  cunning  things  our  dollies  say  and  do. 

Oh,  I  am  glad  to  be  a  little  child ! 

In  wide  green  fields  and  fair  June  meadows  sweet, 
Starred  with  the  buttercups  and  daisies  wild, 

Where  thistledown  goes  flying  at  my  feet. 


MY  BUNNY.     (1892.) 

I  had  a  rabbit, 
And  it  was  his  habit 

To  gnaw  whatever  he  could  find; 
He  gnawed  my  trees  and  bushes 

Whenever  he'd  a  mind. 

His  eyes  were  pink  and  rosy 
And  as  pretty  as  a  posy, 

And  his  coat  was  snowy  white, 
He  was  as  cunning  bunny 

As  ever  saw  the  light. 

But  oh,  his  naughty  habits! 
Made  me  wish  that  little  rabbits 

Would  learn  to  do  the  right, 
And,   not   like   naughty   children, 

Touch  whatever  was  in  sight. 


LITTLE  IDA.     (1892.) 


Dear  little  Ida  stood  and  watched 

The  lightning-flashing  skies, 
"O 


ied, 


me  iigntmng-nasmng  SKICS, 
[)  mamma !  come  and  see,"   she  cr 
"How  God  do  wink  His  eyes!" 


THE  FAITH  OF  CHILDHOOD.     (1894.) 

Oh,  thick  the  shadows  fell  and  dark ! 

The  moon  had  hid  her  face  away, 
Xor  anywhere  was  seen  a  spark 

Of  sweet,  pure  starlight  o'er  the  way 
Her  weary  feet  must  walk  alone, 
All  uncompanioned  save  by  moan 
Of  the  wild  wind  that  sobbed  along 
The  silent  path  her  child  had  gone. 

On,  on  she  went,  her  mother  heart 

Giving  her  strength  to  onward  go, 
The  briars  tall  her  hands  did  part. 
Yet,  O  they  left  them  aching  so! 
Her  child !  where  was  the  darling  one 
Who  left  her  arms  at  set  ot  sun, 
Who  went  to  find  the  pot  of  gold 
The  shining  rainbow  did  enfold? 

The  thunder  rolled  across  the  sky 

Like  some  loud  trumpet  blasts  outblown 

By  some  great  Titan  perched  on  high 
Within  the  vast  Unseen,  unknown. 


163 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Then  lo!  a  smiling  rift  of  cloud, 
Though  the  mad  thunders  muttered  loud, 
With  silver  gleam  the  moon  looked  through 
And  lighted  all  the  earth  anew. 

And  then  a  sudden  flash  there  came, 

Red  lightning  through  the  darkened  air; 
She  looked,  and  through  that  sudden  flame 

Sight  turned  to  joy  her  deep  despair. 
For  there,  where  shining  poppies  made 
A  couch  of  gold,  her  child  was  laid — 
Laid  in  soft  slumber,  fearless,  sweet 
As  the  wild  blossoms  at  her  feet. 

She  wakened  her!  The  child  uprose 
And  looked  about  her  as  she  sought 

Some  precious  treasure  to  disclose, 
Something  too  priceless  to  be  bought. 

With  lips  a-tremble  as  her  eye 

She  lifted  to  the  clouded  sky: 

"Mamma,  I  think  that  Dod  has  gone, 

Yet  He's  not  left  me  very  long." 

The  zigzag  lightning  came  again: 

"Mamma,  just  see  the  golden  stairs 

Up  which  He  went  through  all  the  rain, 
Just  as  I  knelt  to  say  my  prayers. 

And  then  I  went  to  sleep,  so  sweet 

Wif  all  the  poppies  'round  my  feet. 

The  rainbow  went  away  and  so 

I  didn't  any  farther  go." 

Another  flash !  the  little  one 
With  eyes  uplifted  and  glad  face 

Looked  'round  to  see  if  God  had  come 
To  seek  her  in  that  lonely  place. 

"Good-night,  Dod,  I  don't  see  you  here, 

But  still  I  thinks  that  you  are  near, 

Perhaps  behind  a  star  you  be, 

And  you  are  watching  over  me." 

O  happy  child  heart!  trusting,  sweet, 

Of  such  as  thee  Heav'n's  kingdom  is; 
Faith  paves  the  pathway  for  your  feet 

'Mid  all  life's  unsolved  mysteries. 
Eden  is  here  at  your  right  hand, 
The  Eden  fair  of  Faith's  bright  land, 
And  God  is  there,  His  light  is  shed 
Purer  than  starlight  on  your  head. 


CHILDHOOD  IN  SUMMERLAND— JANUARY.     (1897.) 

Pitty-pat,  hark!  there  is  Willie,  see! 

Chasing  a  wandering  bumble-bee, 

Hippety-hop  and  away  we  go 

Through  meadows   white  with   the  daisies'   snow. 

Hide-and-go-seek !  and  can  you  find  me, 

0  bird  in  the  green-boughed  pepper  tree? 
Down  in  the  beautiful  clover  sweet 

1  am  buried  now  from  hea'd  to  feet. 
And  what,  oh,  what  is  it  that  I  hear? 


'Tis  the  flies  which  are  buzzing  softly  near, 
As  if  some  story  they  had  to  tell 
To  Willie  and  me  and  little  Nell. 
What  are  you  thinking  of,  little  fly? 
My  gingerbread  dog  I  think  you  spy. 
Yes,  yes,  and  you  are  a  robber  bold 
Seeking  to  capture  the  sweets  I  hold. 

Gay  is  the  cricket's  song  in  the  grass, 

While  like  winged  flow'rs  the  butterflies  pass, 

Or  like  golden  boats  in  a  sea  of  light, 

Floating  away  do  they  take  their  flight. 

Hi  spy !  and  quickly  away  we  run, 

All  laughter-loving  and  full  of  fun ; 

Orange  trees  nod  with  their  blossoms  fair, 

While  roses  make  sweet  the  shining  air; 

We  gather  them  for  a  battle  bold, 

The  roses  of  white  and  red  and  gold, 

Pelting  each  other  away  we  go, 

With  fragrant  roses  in  place  of  snow. 

No  Snow-Man  have  we,  but  lilies  lean 

Like  white-faced  nuns  o'er  the  grasses  green, 

While  the  cactus  stands  with  its  pointed  spear, 

And  the  canna  tall  is  growing  near. 

Play  we  gaily  here  from  rise  of  sun 

Till  the  day  is  gone  and  the  bright  stars  come, 

When  with  happy  hearts  we  nestle  down 

To  our  slumbers  sweet  in  Good-Night  Town. 


THE  FAIRIES  AND  THE  BUTTERFLY.     (1897.) 

The  sweet  fairies  lay  all  hid  in  the  grass, 

Smiling  to  see  a  white  thistledown  pass, 

Smiling  to  see  a  dandelion  lean 

To  stroke  a  cricket  beneath  its  screen. 

And  lo!  beyond,  amid  the  sweet  clover, 

They  saw  a  big  Worm,  an  ambling  rover; 

He  strove  to  be  graceful,  but,  oh,  alas ! 

No  more  awkward  fellow  did  ever  pass. 

Many  his  legs,  and  his  body  was  lean, 

And  he  crawled  and  tumbled  the  grass  between; 

But  still  he  did  look,  as  he  onward  went, 

Like  the  very  picture  of  sweet  content. 

Slender  and  awkward  and  brown  was  he, 

But  happy  still  as  a  soul  could  be. 

Ha!  cried  the  fairies,  a  brave  fellow  he! 

He  something  better  than  a  worm  should  be. 

So  they  caught  him  up  in  their  tiny  hands, 
And  counted  his  feet  and  the  many  bands 
Of  beautiful  color  about  his  form, 
Like  ribbons  of  light  about  him  drawn; 
Then  they  kissed  him  fondly,  and  lo!  he  grew 
Into  wondrous  loveliness,  strange  and  new; 
For  out  of  that  kiss  the  Butterfly  came, 
With  beautiful  color  all  aflame, 
And  his  golden  wings  were  both  dotted,  bright 
With  touches  of  red  like  the  sunset  light, 


164 


The  Child  and  the  ll'mlx. 


And  he  flew  aloft  in  the  golden  air, 

And  looked  like  a  bright-winged  blossom  there. 

Then  fluttered  he  down  amid  the  flowers, 

Sipped   their   nectar  sweet   through   the   gladsome  hou 

Oh,  well  do  we  love  you !  the  fairies  cry, 

You  are  born  of  our  kiss,  sweet  Butterfly. 


JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.     (1902.) 

Comrade  am  I  of  Color  and  Light, 

And  the  sweet  silence  that  doth  round  me  brood, 
While  the  far  skies  above  me,  bending  bright, 

Make  glorious  these  haunts  of  solitude. 

What  lessons  one  may  gather  unafraid 

In  the  deep  woods,  where  Nature's  speech  is  heard: 
What  wondrous  notes  are  by  the  wind's  harps  played. 

What  countless  voices  are  to  music  stirred. 

I  mind  me  well  of  other  days  agone, 
When  in  the  wildwood  by  a  silver  stream 

My  heart  was  gladdened  by  the  robin's  song, 
And  by  the  beauty  of  the  wild-flowers'  gleam. 

And  soon  I  came  upon  a  quaint,  wild  bloom, 
Standing  alone  where  forest  shadows  lay; 

A  mimic  man  within  his  leaf-ceiled  room, 
Like  some  lone  spirit  of  the  shining  day. 

"Oh,  what  is  this?"   I  to  my  teacher  cried. 

" Jack-in-the-Pulpit,"  said  she,  drawing  near; 
"And  does  he  to  the  flowers  by  his  side 

Preach  sermons,"  said  I,  "such  as  all  can  hear?" 

Through  the  long  years  Jack's  voice  still  to  me 
Speaks  of  God's  love  and  of  His  constant  care; 

And  still  he  stands  in  blessed  ministry, 
A  silent  preacher  in  the  forest  there. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  BIRDS.     (1902.) 

Within  the  tree-tops  many  happy  birds 
Fluttered  amid  the  thousand  swaying  leaves, 
And  downward  poured  a  flood  of  sweetest  song, 
The  very  air  was  drowned  in  it.     Along 
The  valley's  length,  like  a  great  tidal  wave, 
Mingled  with  sunshine,  did  it  onward   roll, 
And  the  hushed  winds  were  listening  as  it   fell. 
The  roses  seemed  to  breathe  beneath  its  spell, 
While  the  bright  air  did  laugh  in  gladness,  too, 
As  on  the  ground  lay  Morning's  silver  dew, 
And  all  the  Karth  was  gladder  for  the  notes 
Falling  so  sweetly  from  those  feathered  throats. 

A  little  child  came  straying  out  of  doors, 
Threading  the  green  by-paths  about  her  home, 
Plucking  the  flowers  that  grew  around  her  there, 
Watching  the  brightness  of  the  Summer  air, 
Until  at  length  the  bird-song  caught  her  ear. 
Clapping  her  hands,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
Unto  the  trees  from  which  the  bird-notes  fell. 


Richer  and  fuller  did  the  music  swell 

As  if  the  air  was  bursting  into  song, 

And  every  leaf  a  lute  to  play  upon. 

"I  wonder  whever  cley  do  sing  for  Dod,"  said  she, 

"Or  whever  dey  be  singing  dest  for  me." 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE. 

''''Little  Boy   Blue!  conn-,  bloir  your  horn, 
The  sheep  are  in  the  meadow,  (he  cows  in  the  corn, 
Where's  the  little  boy  who  tends  the  sheep? 
Under  the  haymow,  fast  asleep." 

All  the  world  is  wide  awake, 

Running  o'er  with  gladness, 

With  no  room  for  cloud  or  sadness, 

For  Summer's  here  with  eyes  of  blue, 

With  golden  sunshine  looking  through 

From  the  glory  of  her  skies; 

With  bird-song  bubbling  o'er 

From  her  trees, 

While  the  bees 

Hum  through  fields  of  clover, 

Oh,  the  happy  sound  they  make. 

As  their  joyous  flight  they  take, 

From  flower  to  flower, 

In  the  dewy  morning  hour ! 

Buzzing,  buzzing  do  they  go, 

While  the  glad  flies,  humming  low, 

Where  the  honeysuckle  swings, 

Stir  their  little  silver  wings. 

Oli,  lie  wary,  little  flies, 

For  a  big  fat  spider  spies 

You  as  you  gaily  come, 

And  his  silver  web  is  he 

Spreading  both  for  fly  and  bee; 

And  he  thinks,  I'll  have  one 

Of  those  foolish  flies  for  dinner. 

See  him  work — the  wicked  sinner! 

Back  and  forth  from  leaf  to  leaf, 

See  him  spin  his  silver  thread, 

Like  a  curtain  overhead; 

But  he'll  stop  with  winning  speech 

When  the  flies  within  his  reach 

Come  with  pretty  shining  wings. 

See  how  quickly  out  he  springs, 

Seizes  one  and  breaks  his  wings, 

Then  he  hangs  him  in  the  sun, 

Roasting  him  till  he  is  done. 

There  is  Mrs.  Spider,  too; 

See,  she  turns  the  dead  fly  over, 

So  the  Sun  shall  cook  it  through, 

Then  beneath  a  green  leafs  cover  swift  she  runs, 

Sitting  there  as  meek  as  though 

Nothing  naughty  she  did  know. 

Put  your  ear  down  to  the  ground, 
Don't  you  think  you  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  little  roots  astir, 
'Xeath  the  swaying  lilies'  stalk— 


IbS 


Juvenile  Poems. 


Down  along  the  garden  walk? 
'Neath  the  pansies'  smiling  faces, 
Lifted  in  such  quiet  places; 
'Neath  the  roses  growing  fair, 
'Neath  the  blossoms  everywhere? 

O  these  Summer  days  are  fine, 
Golden  is  the  Summer  weather, 
Brook  and  bird  they  sing  together 
Where  the  rippling  waters  shine; 
While  along  the  river's  line 
Lean  the  willows  all  together, 
With  a  softly-swaying  grace, 
Looking  each  to  see  its  face 
In  the  flowing  waters  cool, 
Flinging  shadows  on  the  pool 
Where  the  long-winged  swallows  glide 
O'er  the  silence  of  its  breast, 
Dipping  beak  and  feathered  crest 
In  the  silver  of  the  tide. 

All  the  rosy  morn  is  still, 

Saving  only  the  sweet  trill 

Of  the  robin  and  the  lark, 

And  the  sudden,  noisy  whirr 

Of  the  swift  wings  of  the  swallow. 

But  list,  my  dears,  O  list  and  hark! 

For  there  is  little  Boy  Blue 

Who  is  blowing  his  horn, 

And  he  has  blown  such  a  blast  he's  broke  it  in  two. 

"Little  Boy  Blue,  why  did  you  do  it?" 

"Oh,  look  at  the  corn  and  the  cows  coming  through  it, 

While  in  the  green  meadows  like  clouds  you  can  see 

The  white  fleece  of  the  sheep — a  hundred  there  be; 

And  there  'neath  the  gold  of  the  haymow  asleep 

Is  the  bad  little  boy  who  should  take  care  of  the  sheep." 

My  child,  he's  not  bad,  the  dear  little  fellow, 

With  his  thin,  pallid  lips  and  curls  that  are  yellow 

As  the  soft  swaying  buttercups  leaning  above  him, 

Like  God's  watching  angels  to  guard  and  to  love  him — 

He's  weary  with  watching,  so  young  and  so  small, 

For  I  know  he  was  up  while  you  children  were  all 

In  your  beds  and  asleep— was  up  with  the  Sun, 

For  his  father  is  dead,  and  his  mother  has  none 

To  help  her  but  him,  and  the  sheep  were  so  still, 

As  they  fed  on  the  tender  young  grass  of  the  hill, 

He  thought  he  might  lie  down  for  a  moment,  and  In ! 

His  poor  little  eyelids  were  heavy,  and  so 

They  quickly  dropped  downward,  shutting  him  in 

AVith  beautiful  dreams,  and  not  even  the  din 

Of  the  horn  which  was  blown  by  Little  Boy  Blue 

Has  reached  the  sweet  Dreamland  he's  wandering  through. 

But  the  farmer  is  kind  and  is  sorry  for  him, 
Saying,  "Poor  little  boy,  let  him  sleep  while  we  bring 
The  sheep  from  the  meadow,  the  cows  from  the  corn, 
And  I'll  see  that  he's  not  called  so  early  each  morn." 
So  away  sped  the  farmer,  and  all  of  his  men 
Drove  the  sheep  and  the  cows  to  their  pastures  again, 
And  the  boys  and  the  girls  they  tended  the  sheep 
While  the  little  boy  lay  by  the  haymow  asleep. 


JACK  AND  THE  BEANSTALK. 

Out  in  the  meadows,  yellow  and  fair, 

Stood  the  gay  buttercups;  thousands  were  there, 

Filled  with  the  sunshine,  bright  with  the  dew, 

They  shimmered  like  stars  the  wide  meadow  through. 

Dandelions  bowed  to  them  everywhere, 

Bees  floated  over  them  through  the  bright  air, 

And  the  rosy-red  clover,  whose  honey  was  sweet, 

Swayed  soft  at  the  touch  of  the  rover  Wind's  feet, 

Which  lingered  and  loitered  and  hid  in  its'  leaves, 

Or  with  gayest  of  murmurs  swept  on  through  the  trees. 

Then  out  from  a  tiny  red  cottage  there  came 
A  gay  little  fellow,  and  Jack  was  his  name. 
He  had  pretty  red  boots  and  a  cap  with  a  feather, 
And  his  clothes  were  of  velvet;  as  fine  altogether 
As  a  prince  did  he  look,  and  down  did  he  run- 
Just  as  over  the  mountains  peeped  the  bright  Sun — 
To  his  garden,  where  he  had  planted  so  deep 
A  big,  shiny  bean,  which  he'd  planted  for  fun 
Only  the  yesterday's  eve;  and  oh,  how  his  eyes 
Opened  wide  'neath  their  lids  in  the  greatest  surprise, 
For  the  bean  had  pushed  its  way  up  through  the  ground, 
And  'twas  taller  than  the  tallest  tree  to  be  found. 

"I'll  climb  that  beanstalk,"  cried  Jack  in  delight, 
And  swift  he  went  up  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 
His  mother  came  out  and  called  him  by  name — 
Called  him  loudly  and  long,  but  called  him  in  vain; 
No  sound  did  she  hear  but  the  hum  of  the  bee, 
And  the  song  of  the  robin  as  it  sang  in  the  tree, 
And   she   listened   and   wondered    where   her    dear   Jack 
could  be. 

But  Jack,  he  was  happy,  and  climbed  high  and  higher, 

Up  and  up,  far  above  the  tallest  church  spire; 

Up  and  up,  till  the  mountains  below  him  did  lie, 

Till  he  thought  he  could  climb  through  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

But  after  a  while  he  ran  out  on  a  limb 

Of  the  beanstalk  which  seemed  to  stretch  out  to  the  rim 

Of  the  sky,  and  there,  to  his  joy, 

Was  a  wonderful  land,  where  never  a  boy 

Of  his  size  had  been  seen — its  trees  were  so  high 

They  seemed  to  stretch  up  to  the  noon  of  the  sky; 

Its  rivers  were  vast,  and  its  meadows  were  wide 

As  our  Earth's  mighty  continents  swept  by  the  tide 

Of  the  great  rolling  oceans;  and  its  houses — why  they 

Stood  bigger  than  mountains  right  over  the  way. 

"This  is  jolly,"  said  Jack,  "and  I  believe  I  will  run 

And  rap  on  that  door — I'll  do  it  for  fun." 

So  he  scampered  away  as  fast  as  his  feet 

Could  take  him  across  the  wide,  sunny  street. 

But  oh!  every  step  was  as  high  as  his  head, 

And  he  struggled  to  climb  them  till  he  was  more  than 

half  dead 

With  fatigue;  but  at  length  he  got  hold 
Of  a  long,  swaying  vine  which  was  yellow  as  gold, 
With  beautiful  blossoms  which  grew  thick  on  each  stem, 
As  he  pulled  himself  up  by  clinging  to  them. 


166 


Jack  and  the  Beanstalk. 


Then  he  gave  a  loud  rap,  and  lo !  to  the  door 

Came  a  wonderful  Giant,  big  as  a  dozen  or  more 

Of  men  like  Jack's  father,  and  he  scowled  as  he  saw 

Jack  standing  before  him,  and  he  reached  down  to  draw 

Him  under  his  thumb,  and  he  held  him  so  tight 

Jack  was  ready  to  perish  with  terror  and  fright; 

And  down  through  the  long  hall  he  carried  him  then. 

And  he  took  his  snuff-box  for  a  safe  prison-pen. 

And  Jack  he  grew  brave  and  he  took  from  his  pocket 

A  sling  and  a  stone,  and  like  a  sky-rocket 

He  shot  the  stone  at  him,  and  it  sank  in  his  head, 

Then  down  fell  the  Giant,  and  in  a  moment  was  dead. 

Then  the  old  Giant's  wife  came  hurrying  in — 

She  was  tall  as  a  poplar,  as  graceful  and  slim, 

And  she  smiled  when  she  saw  the  old  Giant  lie  there, 

For  he'd  always  been  cruel  and  cross  as  a  bear. 

And  she  took  little  Jack  and  gave  him  a  kiss, 

Saying,  "Pray,  tell  me,  dear,  the  meaning  of  this." 

Then  Jack  stood  up  bravely  on  the  table  beside  her — 
While  his  beautiful  eyes  opened  wider  and  wider — 
And  he  said:  "I  live  away  down  in  the  world 
Round  which  the  great  seas  and  oceans  are  curled; 
And  last  eve,  when  the  Sun  went  down  in  the  West, 
I  went  to  my  garden,  and  deep  in  its  breast 
I  planted  a  bean,  and  when  morning  had  come 
It  had  grown  up  so  high  it  reached  to  the  Sun, 
And  I  climbed  up  its  stalk  and  happened  to  find 


This  land  where  you  live,  and  I  thought  you'd  be  kind 

If  I  ran  in  to  see  you;  but  the  Giant  he  swore, 

So  soon  as  ever  he'd  opened  the  door, 

That  he'd  eat  me  for  dinner,  and  he  brought  me  in  here, 

And  at  first  I  grew  weak  and  trembled  with  fear. 

Then  I  remembered  at  once  my  stones  and  my  sling, 
And  quickly  I  seized  them  and  hastened  to  fling 
A  stone  at  his  head,  and  it  hit  him,  and  lo! 
He  fell  dead  as  you  see  him — and  now  may  I  go? 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  smiling,  "but  first  I  must  give 
Some  treasures  of  mine  that  will  help  you  to  live 
In  plenty  at  home."     So  down  a  stairway  of  gold 
She  took  him.     Doors  of  pearl  did  unfold 
.As  onward  they  went,  till  they  came  to  a  room 
Where  diamonds  shone,  dispelling  the  gloom 
By  the  closed  shutters  made,  and  she  filled  up  a  sack 
As  big  as  he  could  possibly  take  on  his  back — 
With  gold  and  with  diamonds  richest  and  rare; 
Then  she  fastened  it  up  and  laid  it  with  care 
On  Jack's  sturdy  shoulders,  and  a  servant  she  sent 
To  help  him  along  on  his  way  as  he  went. 

Then  swift  down  the  beanstalk  Jack  hurried  away, 
And  reached  his  dear  mother  just  at  close  of  the  day, 
And  he  showed  her  his  treasures,  and  oh,  she  was  glad 
Of  the  riches  brought  home  by  her  brave  little  lad. 


167 


'Qolden  the  lances  the  sunshine  dropped." 


THE  LEPER'S  CLEANSING.     (1891.) 

Bright  shone  the  Sun  within  Judean  skies; 

The  heavens  were  blue  as  the  eye  of  love; 

No  cloud  their  brightness  marred,  no  shadow  fell 

Save  of  the  olive  leaf  and  swaying  palm, 

Or  cool  rock  by  the  wayside  lifted  high. 

Golden  the  lances  the  sunshine  dropped, 

And  softly  twittered  the  birds  within  the  trees, 

And  with  cool  breath  the  lightly  whispering  breeze 

Swept  onward,  fragrance-laden,  sweet  and  pure, 

And  men  looked  up  and  cried,  "How  fair  the  day! 

And  women  smiled  and  said,  "This  life  is  sweet, 

Tis  joy  to  live  with  all  the  earth  so  fair." 

And  little  children  'neath  the  olive  trees 

Let  laughter  gurgle  like  the  rippling  brook, 

And  peace  seemed  brooding  over  everything. 

Swift  broke  the  new  day  in  the  purple  East, 

With  splendor  crowned  the  crest  of  Olivet 

O'er  which  ran  dimpling  waves  of  rosy  light, 

And  golden  seas  of  shining  amber  flowed. 

How  like  an  opal  hung  the  dome  of  sky, 

The  dew  still  sleeping  in  its  hidden  caves, 

Then  changed  to  gleaming  sapphire  as  the  Sun 

Stole  to  Day's  borderland,  and  then  at  length 

Morn  flung  out  crimson  banners  to  the  East, 

And  golden  pennons  streamed  above  the  heights. 

Then  'mid  the  swaying  palms  soft  swelled  the  glad 

Birds'  notes.     The  lark  rose  upward,  singing  to 

The  Sun,  and  poured  its  song  into  the  ear 

Of  listening  flowers;  and,  silver-tongued, 

The  brooks  sang  to  the  skies  they  mirrored,  and 

To  the  emerald  hills  and  green-spreading 

Vales.     No  signs  of  sin  upon  the  world,  for 

It  was  fair  as  Eden.     But  as  the  Day 

Sped  on,  while  Morn  yet  lingered  with  her  breath 

Of  balm  and  gentle  breezes,  a  human 

Flood  came  down  the  dusty  way  leading  from 

Bethany,  each  earnest  face  set  toward 

Jerusalem,  whose  sacred  towers  rose, 

Parting  the  blue  heaven,  their  gleaming 

Gold  answering  the  brightness  of  flashing 

Sunbeams. 

Amid  the  throng  a  Man  with  face 
Serene  and  calm,  the  large  eyes  lustrous,  the 
Lips  touched  with  the  sweetness  of  divinest 
Love;  the  brown  hair  parted  o'er  his  forehead's 
Front,  and  flowing;  backward  like  a  cloud  of 
Light,  and  rippling  o'er  his  shoulders.     Onward 
He  goes,  the  surging  crowd  pressing  upon 
His  footsteps,  thronging  beside,  before,  behind. 
But  what  has  stirred  them !     A  shuddering  cry, 
A  quick  rush  to  the  roadside,  where  hottest 
Falls  the  unhindered  sunshine.     Why  leave  the 
Shadow  of  the  palm,  and  the  pleasant  shade 


Of  fig  and  olive?    O  look  and  pity! 

"Unclean!     Unclean!"     The  tremulous  air  hears 

Shudderingly  the  cry,  as  there  beneath 

The  olive's  swaying  boughs,  upon  the  dusty 

Wayside  knelt  the  hideous  leper.     How 

Stared  the  lidless  eyes,  and  how   foul  with 

Putrid  sores  the  fleshless  nostrils!     Disease 

The  lips  had  eaten,  and  the  long  white  hair 

Was  like  a  shroud  about  his  face,  and  his 

Withered,  shriveled  hands  were  colorless,  and 

Thin  his  fingers  as  the  claws  of  birds.     The 

Multitude  swept  from  him  like  a  great  wave 

Receding  from  the  shore— all  save  One,  who 

Turned  and  looked  upon  him  pityingly. 

Then  spake  the  leper:     "Jesus,  Thou  Son  of 

David,  have  mercy  on  me!"    "What  wilt  thou?" 

Said  the  Master,  and  His  voice  was  full  of 

Tenderness,  and  sweet  as  the  melody 

Of  a  lute  his  words  did  fall  upon  the 

Leper's  ear.     "Lord,  make  me  clean.     Heal  Thou  this 

Leprosy."     Divine  the  voice  that  answered: 

"  I  will ;  be  thou  clean."     Then  sprang  the  leper 

To  his  feet,  and  with  uncovered  face  stood 

In  the  sunlight.     In  his  veins  the  warm,  fresh 

Blood  began  to  circle,  thrilling  him  with 

Sense  of  health  returning.     Over  his  eyes 

He  felt  expanding  soft  lids  of  tender 

Flesh,  fringed  with  dark  lashes.     The  breath  came  sweet 

Again  within  his  nostrils,  and  all  their 

Foulness  vanished.     He  touched  them  and  felt  once 

More  the  velvet  skin  upon  them,  and  felt 

Again  the  bearded  flesh  above  his  lips — 

The  lips  rosy  once  more  with  health,  and  his 

Hands  he  watched  as  they  grew  soft  and  warm,  and 

Supple  with  fresh  strength.     How  soft  his  flesh!     How 

Show  the  blue  veins  through  their  clear  covering ! 

O  what  a  delight  to  watch  them  as  they  change ! 

Are  they  not  beautiful,  blue-veined  and  clean? 

Then  kneeling  there  before  the  silent  throng 
Who  looked  with  wondering  eyes  upon  him, 
Cleansed  and  healed,  he  cried  rejoicingly:    "Tt 
Is  the  Christ !    His  word  hath  made  me  whole !    To 
God,  our  Israel's  God,  the  glory!" 


FROM  MY  WINDOW.     (1891.) 

Oh,  could  I  set  this  picture  in  sweet  words, 

What  would  ye  see?    A  land  fair  as  the  light, 

And  green  as  the  emerald  worn  upon 

Young  Beauty's  finger.     And  you  would  think  the 

Earth  was  starred  as  is  the  sky  at  night,  for 

Everywhere  blooms  the  gold-eyed  daisy, 

And  on  the  hills  the  poppies,  yellow  as 

The  wine  of  sunset,  stir  at  the  soft  kiss 

Of  wandering  breezes,  while  the  grasses 


168 


Memnon. 


Move  as  if  tlie  Earth's  warm  breast  did  lightly 

Heave  beneath  them.     Everywhere  bloom  and 

Color  fragrance-crowned,  and  bird-song,  and  the 

Sound  of  buzzing  bee,  and  butterflies,  like 

Wing6d  blossoms  in  the  opalescent  air; 

And  little  singing  brooks,  with  voices  like 

A  silver  lute,  or  chime  of  bells  on  the 

Dewy  breast  of  Morn;  and  rainbow-winged  flies; 

And  swaying  vines;  and  orchards  amber-sphered, 

Their  boughs  filled  with  untwinkling  juicy  globes; 

Days  filled  full  of  Summer's  lingering  breath, 

As  if  her  soul  lay  hidden  somewhere  in 

The  light,  and  breathed  through  it  as  a  glad  child 

Does  through  its  rosy  lips.     Then,  mountain  heights 

That  the  Sun  seems  to  brush  in  passing,  and 

The  mist  to  fold  in  silver  curtains,  and 

At  their  feet  the  fair  hills,  which  are  Summer's 

Footstools,  never  touched  by  sheen  of  frost,  the 

Worshipers  of  the  mountains,   forever 

Kneeling  and  offering  perfumed  incense 

From  their  flowery  censers.     Over  all 

The  sapphire  dome  of  skies,  so  vast,  so  deep, 

Eternity  might  sleep  in  them,  and  suns 

Hide;  and,  beyond,  the  Sea,  where  heaven 

Looks  down  to  see  its  face;  and  white  ships 

That  sail  and  seem  to  pass  behind  the  blue 

Of  sky;  and  ocean  isles,  asleep  upon 

The  silver  of  the  tide ;  and  over  these 

The  floods  of  sunshine,  and  the  Earth  lying 

Like  a  maiden  in  her  sleep,  forever 

Young  and  fair,  smiling  in  pleasant  dreams. 


MEMNON.     (1884.) 

Out  upon  the  sand-built  plains, 

Where  the  young  world  passed  its  prime, 
Where  the  ages,  vast  and  dim, 

Backward  stretch  to  earliest  time, 
Where  Creation's  morning  hymn 

Echoed  in  its  strains  sublime, 
Memnon  stands  with  face  of  stone, 

Looking  to  the  purple  East, 
Vast  and  solemn,  standing  lone, 

Waiting  for  the  golden  light 
Breaking  round  the  coming  Dawn; 

All  his  pulses  at  the  sight 
Stirred  to  life,  and  in  the  warm 

Soft,  rosy  touch  which  holds  him  there, 
In  the  clasp  of  Morning's  arms, 

All  his  gray  and  solemn  form 
Thrills  till  from  its  lips  of  stone 

Breaks  the  music  that  has  stirred 
Low  and  sweet  upon  the  air 

Since  the  day  when  Thebes  was  young. 

Memnon,  is  some  god  of  old 

Prisoned  in  thy  stony  form, 
Doing   penance    for   untold 

Works  of  sin  and  deeds  of  wrong? 
Does  the  golden  sunrise  hold 


Whispers  only  heard  by  thee, 
Stirring  all  thy  soul  to  bliss 

Through   their   shining    prophesy? 
When  the  ages  shall  have  gone, 

At  the  touch  of  Morning  still 

Will  your  stony  pulses  thrill 
Till  you  break  your  bonds  of  stone, 
And  your  soul  leaps  glad  and  free, 

Purified  and  purged   from  pain, 

Led  by  Light  to  walk  again? 
Through  the  paths  of  olden  days, 
On  the  sandy  plains  of  Thebes, 

By  the  river  of  the  Xile, 
In  the  old  historic  ways 

That   the  young  world's  heroes  trod. 

Here  I  pause — the  Morning  breaks, 

Pours  its  glory  on  his  face, 

And  the  low,  sweet  music's  strain 

Sounds  across  the  sandy  plain; 

Memnon  wakes  to  life  again, 

And  akin  he  is,  I  know, 

To  the  sunrise,  and  its  kiss 

Yet  shall  break  the  spell  that  holds 

Memnon  in  its  stony  folds; 

And  he  knows  and  waits  for  this. 


THE  OLD  ADOBE.     (1886.) 

The  winds  have  dropped  asleep  amid  the  palms, 

Breathing  but  lightly,  as  if  dreaming  sweet 
Of  fragrant  silence  and  of  tropic  calms; 

And  roses  smile,  as  if  the  Summer's  feet 
Still  lingered  'neath  the  shade  of  red-tiled  roof, 

Girt  round  with  green  of  pepper-tree  and  lime 
And  fragrant  heliotrope,  which  stands  aloof 

From  the  starred  glory  of  the  passion-vine. 

The  long  line  of  the  lilies'  tents  is  spread 

Beneath  the  eucalypti's  dropping  shade; 
And  on  the  old  adobe  walls  the  red. 

Warm  chilis  into  long  strings  made — 
Strung  by  deft  hands,  the  prison  sunshine  holds, 

And  to  the  roof,  like  flaming  pillars,  rise 
Amid  the  vines,  whose  clasping  arms  enfold; 

And,  over  all,  December's  sun-filled  skies. 

Beneath  the  broad  veranda,  sweeping  round, 

Within  a  quiet  corner  we  may  see. 
On  a  rude  bench,  that  leans  toward  the  ground, 

AM  old-time  olla,  with  its  waters  free 
Unto  each  thirsty  lip;  and,  in  the  tropic  noon. 

Cool  as  if  frost-kissed;  and  the  wild  gourd's  cup. 
Yellow,  as  if  the  sunbeams,  stealing  down    full   sooi 

Had  in  its  sides  been  caught  and  gathered  up. 

Our  glad  lips  press  its  thin  brim's  slender  line, 
And  Noon  seems  breathing  freer  while  we  drink — 

Better  than  juice  from  purple-laden  vine 
The  cool,  pure  water;  and,  musing,  sit  and  think, 

As  if  each  breeze  which  plays  around  us  there 
A  wind-blown  inemorv  had  wafted  o'er  us 


109 


Unclassified  Poems. 


Its  breath  of  romance,  filling  all  the  air 
Of  vanished  races  who  were  here  before  us, 

Who  piled  these  sunburnt  bricks  and  reared  these  walls, 
Facing  the  glorious  sunshine  of  today, 

Hoary  as  century-old  baronial  halls, 
Crumbling,  and  falling  into  swift  decay. 

II.   (1891.) 

Its  sunburnt  bricks  are  hoary  with  old  age, 

Its  red-tiled  roof  seems  breathing  of  the  past, 
It  is  Romance's  wide,  unlettered  page, 

Round  which  the  climbing  ivy  clingeth  fast; 
And  wandering  spiders  spin  their  silver  sheen — 

Their  summer  tents,  swift-woven  in  the  light — 
For  camping  armies,  all  its  cracks  between, 

Through  its  small  windows  scarcely  peeps  the  light. 

Where  the  gay  maids  that  in  the  long  ago 

Lived  'neath  its  roof,  the  midnight  in  their  eyes, 

And  in  their  tones  the  liquid  river's  flow, 

And  in  their  smile  the  warmth  of  sunny  skies? 

AN  EVENING  PICTURE.     (1892.) 

The  gracious  starlight  and  the  many  stars, 
The  light  winds  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  Eve, 

And  there,  across  the  distant  West,  the  bars 
Swift  fading  that  the  sunset  lights  did  weave. 

A  little  brook  sings  sweetly  to  the  hills, 

A  bird  just  twitters  in  its  leafy  nest, 
A  flower  pours  out  its  incense  to  the  rills 

Whose  crystal  feet  so  late  the  canon  prest. 

In  golden  lances  falls  the  starlight  down, 

Each  leaf  hangs  breathless  on  its  slender  stem; 

The  high  Sierras,  bare  and  vast  and  brown, 
The  crescent  moon  wear  for  their  diadem. 

The  long  road  runs,  a  thread  of  dusty  white; 

'Tis  trodden  now  by  many  hurrying  feet ; 
The  rising  dust  just  blurs  our  watching  sight, 

As  looking  where  the  light  and  darkness  meet, 

Fainter  and  fainter  grows  the  twilight  gleam, 
Clearer  the  starlight  as  the  shadows  fall, 

More  silvery  the  faint  young  moonlight's  beam, 
Till  Night    drops  her  mantle  over  all. 

A  MORNING  OF  THE  LONG  AGO. 

It  was  hardly  light,  yet  I  sat  at  dawn 

In  the  college  tower  on  a  summer's  morn; 

Beneath  the  lovely  village  lay, 

And  the  beairtful  park  and  far-off  bay. 

The  mountains  rose  grand  in  the  distant  east, 

And  the  tall  trees  stood  like  a  bearded  priest, 

And  "the  birds  sang  east  and  the  birds  sang  west," 

As  if  made  of  song  was  each  tiny  breast. 

Far  off  the  green  mounts  lifted  high 

Their  penciled  lines  against  the  sky; 

The  blue  mounts  rose  in  the  faint,  dim  dawn, 


Like  shadow}'  heights  just  newly  born, 
And  as  Day  drew  near  the  clouds  did  rise 
Like  golden  altars  of  sacrifice, 
While  the  light  winds  stirred  the  forest  trees 
To  sweetest  of  leaf-lipped  harmonies. 

But  the  village  slept,  and  the  college  halls 

Were  as  still  as  night;  no  light  footfalls 

Through  their  corridors  dim,  no  eye  but  mine 

Watched  the  horizon's  far-off  line 

For  the  first  faint  light  of  the  coming  Sun 

To  chase  away  the  shadows  dim. 

But  I  often  climbed  to  watch  the  sky 

As  the  dark,  black  wings  of  Night  swept  by, 

And  the  glorious  Dawn,  with  wings  unfurled, 

Sent  light  and  music  o'er  the  world. 

I  leaned  and  listened  and  soon  I  heard 

The  first  faint  note  of  singing  bird; 

Twitter  and  peep,  then  out  would  pour 

A  tide  of  music  the  sweet  world  o'er; 

The  Morn  would  her  golden  garments  brush. 

And  her  heart  would  leap  to  the  singing  thrush, 

And  the  robin,  with  breast  of  scarlet  hue, 

Would  sing  as  sweet  as  when  Earth  was  new; 

And  quick  'neath  the  golden  tides  of  light 

The  twinkling  stars  would  sink  from  sight 

Into  the  Somewhere  with  the  Night, 

And  golden  the  tips  of  the  mountain's  crests 

As  on  the  blue  of  the  sky  they  leaned  to  rest. 

Oh,  'twas  lovely  to  me!  and  it  seemed  as  if 

A  new  world  were  born,  with  beetling  cliff 

And  meadows  sweet  with   fragrant  clover, 

And  trees  with  blossoms  covered  over; 

And  mountains,  too,  from  out  the  dim, 

The  star-lighted   spaces.     The   wild-bird's   hymn 

Fell  sweet  with  the  rolling  river's  song, 

As  'twere  singing,  "a  day,  a  day  is  born." 

Hark!  hark!     "Sweet  sweet, 

Peep,  peep;  tweet,  tweet."     I  heard 

Right  near  me,  there,  where  the  old  bell  hung, 

"Tweet,  tweet,"  as  the  rising  bell  was  rung, 

And  looking,  I  saw  a  little  nest 

Right  on  the  verge  of  the  belfry's  crest; 

'Twas  filled  with  eight  little  downy  things, 

Their  feathers  ungrown,  their  tiny  wings 

With  scarce  strength  to  stir;  but  the  papa  bird 

Flew  to  a  tree,  and  I  never  heard 

A  sweeter  song  than  he  poured  so  free 

From  his  little  throat,  and  I  think  that  he 

Was  holding  a  family  jubilee. 

THE  CLOUDS  AND  THE  FAIRIES. 

Just  look  and  see  the  daisies 
Lift  up  their  shining  faces 
Unto  the  skies  so  blue, 
As  if  they  wondered  who 
Had  set  a-sailing  there 
The  fleecy  clouds  so  fair, — 
So  very  soft  and  white, 


170 


The  Soul  of  the  Day. 


And  looking  just  as  light 
As  a  downy   feather — 
Sailing  all  together 
As  if  each  one  did  hold 
A  fairy  sailor  bold, 
Who  might  be  on  his  way 
To  catch  at  close  of  day — 
When  the  moon  should  rise 
So  brightly  in  the  skies- 
Just  a  word  or  two 
With  the  old  man  who 
Lives  within  the  moon. 
Aha !  a  merry  tune 
Would  they  sing  together 
In  this  pleasant  weather. 
Sing  and  float  would  they 
Through  the  skies  away — 
Fleecy  clouds  so  white 
In   the   full  moonlight, 
Each  one  holding,  maybe, 
Fairy  knight  and  lady. 
There!  on   the   mountain   summit, 
One  has  lost  her  bonnet, 
Golden-bright  it's  lying 
With  its  strings  a-flying. 

Float,  float  little  cloud-boats, 
And  daisies  swing, 
While  the  bluebells  ring, 
And  soft  their  music  floats, 
Filling  the  meadows  fair 
And  all  the     rain-washed  air. 
Ah !  when  the  Xight  drops  down 
Over  the  fields  and  town, 
Then,  shining  bright  and  clear 
Will  the  stars  draw  near, 
And  they  will  softly  peep, 
While  all  the  daisies  sleep, 
At  the  white  clouds  afloat, 
And  if  each  is  a  boat, 
With  a  fairy  in  it, 
They'll  know  it  in  a  minute; 
And  over  field  and  hill 
The  brightest  star-beams  will 
Fall  in  a  silver  stream, 
Where  all  the  daisies  dream, 
And  all  the  wood  and  hill 
The  fairy  folk  will  fill. 
They'll  come  from  out  the  sky, 
From  each  cloud  floating  by, 
They'll  steal  from  out  the  daisies, 
With  laughing,  happy  faces; 
From  dandelion  and  bluebell 
You'll  hear  their  laughter  swell, 
And  they'll  dance  upon  the  green 
Behind  a  cobweb  screen. 
With  fiddle  and  with  bow 
There  will  the  cricket  go; 
And  there  the  butterfly 
Will  make  a  canopy 


Of  its  soft  wings,  I  ween, 
Above  the  Fairy  Queen. 
Dancing  on  the  hills, 
Dancing  by  the  rills, 
Dancing  in  the  meadows, 
And  in  the  forest  shadows, 
While  we  are  asleep — 
So  sound  we  cannot  peep — 
Do  the  fairies  go, 
While  soft  breezes  blow, 
And  the  bluebells  ring, 
And  the  daisies  swing, 
Bowing  as  they  pass 
O'er  the  bending  grass. 
Swing,  O  daisies!  everywhere, 
And  ring,  ye  bluebells  fair, 
And  to  your  music  sweet 
Shall  the  fairies'  feet 
All  keep  time  together 
Through  this  moonlit  weather. 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  DAY. 

These  beautiful  days  the  air  is  awake, 

Flooded  with  light  like  a  spirit  fair, 

The  soul  of  the  Day  in  the  sunshine  lies, 

And  its  glorious  presence  is  everywhere. 

Warm  is  its  breath  as  it  lieth  still, 

When  the  winds  are  asleep,  nor  breezes  stir, 

And  the  droop  of  its  wings  is  over  the  hill 

And  the  mountains  are  wrapped  in  the  faintest  blur 

Of  mist-touched  light — a  veil  whose  haze 

So  soft  and  lambent  fills  the  maze 

Of  sweeping  distance;  the  mounts  do  lean 

On  the  blue  of  the  sky  which  shows  between 

The  crested  peaks  like  an  open  door, 

While  birds  wing  the  dawn-kissed  meadow  o'er, 

And  'mid  their  dewy  grasses  sweet 

Is  the  unheard  tread  of  the  Summer's  feet. 


AN  EASTERN  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

The  shadows  fell  across  my  sunny  porch, 

The  blooming  roses  leaned  to  kiss  the  Sun, 

The  striped  bee  struck  up  his  merry  hum, 

And  there  the  Sunflower  his  gay  golden  torch 

Swung  to  the  breeze,  as,  rippling,  it  did  run 

Down  through  the  meadows  where  the  grasses  stood, 

And  through  the  myriad  boughs  of  leafy  wood. 

The  air  grew  dim  with  heat,  the  sleeping  hills 
Scarce  cast  a  shadow  on  the  burning  noon — 
Teased  by  Cicada's  shrill  and  rasping  tune — 
There  was  no  dew  to  moisten  his  small  throat — 
The  Sun  had  drunk  each  drop  while  yet  the  Morn 
\\  ore  them  for  diamonds,  and  the  robin's  note 
Fell  like  a  rain  of  music,  while  each  flowery  cup 
Held  its  bright  pearl,  which  from  the  deeps  of  stars 
Had  dropped  so  silently  through  Midnight's  open  bars. 


171 


Unclassified  Poems. 


I  saw  a  man  move  down  the  road's  white  thread, 
While  all  the  air  was  still  as  if  'twere  dead 
Save  for  the  lines  of  heat  that  shimmered  so 
Like  half-seen  ripples  on  the  Ocean's  breast; 
As  o'er  the  plain's  wide  space  I  saw  him  go. 
He  seemed  a  stain  between  me  and  the  West, 
So  thick  beneath  his  moving  feet  did  rise 
The  white,  dry  dust  that  wrapped  him  there. 

Then,  later,  all  the  atmosphere  astir 
Beat  with  quick  pulse  of  swiftly-rising  winds, 
Breathing  grand  oratorios  through  the  pines, 
And  lifting  seas  of  dust,  through  whose  dim  blur 
The  Earth  seemed  rushing,  like  a  ship  at  sea, 
And  giant  cloudy  Titans  did  arise, 
Sweeping  with  lightning  scimitars  the  skies, 
And  the  black  air  was  with  loud  thunders  rent, 
And  leaned  for  strength  upon  the  moveless  hills, 
Until  the  madness  of  its  wrath  was  spent. 

Then  came  a  break.     The  oratorios  poured 
Through  solemn  heights  of  wooded  oak  and  pine, 
Dropped  into  golden  hymns  of  swift  sunshine; 
And  all  the  wide,  sweet  Earth  was  floored 
With  diamond  drops;  each  baptized  bush  and  tree 
Burst  into  jeweled  glory,  and  did  shine 
With  prism'd  spheres  where  little  rainbows  hung, 
And  every  swaying  leaf  had  found  a  tongue, 
And  fields  were  clean,  and  skies  were  bright, 
And  Coolness  laid  her  hand  divine 
Where  erst  so  late  the  melting  heat 
Through  all  Earth's  fevered  pulses  beat. 


CLOUDS  AND  STARS.     (1886.) 

That  little  cloud  I'm  sure  has  gone  astray, 

It  is  so  very  far.     Gold-tinged,  it  lies 
Along  the  amber  glory  of  the  West— 

That  hidden  door  unto  the  farther  skies— 
Where  lingers  lovingly  the  passing  Day, 

And  piles  up  clouds  of  crimson  for  her  crest. 

The  night  wind  steals  through  portals  all  unseen, 
Ere  says  the  Day  good  night  unto  the  Earth — 
In  what  deep  caves  of  air  cloth  it  find  birth?— 

And  lo !  the  starlight  f alleth  down  between 
The  sunset  and  the  night.     One  star,  as  soft 

As  Love's  tears,  with  beams  as  liquid  pure, 
Shines  on  the  threshold  of  departing  day, 

Like  the  pure  opal  of  some  crowned  queen, 
And  watching  it,  I  see  it  twinkle  oft. 

O  Day !  it  lights  for  thee  thy  untrod  way 

To  that  vast  Somewhere  hidden  from  our  sight, 

'Mid  the  dim  isles,  girt  round  by  soundless  seas, 

Where  nothing  lives  but  human  memories, 

And  God's  own  presence,  unto  whom  as  one 

Are  days  that  were,  and  are,  and  days  that  are  to  come. 


ART.     (1896.) 

O  Art!  thou  wordless  poet  of  all  time, 
Truth  lives  with  thee  and  breathes  divinest  air. 
Greatness  is  thine,  and  beauty  thou  dost  share 
With  sky  and  earth  and  blooming  things  divine 
In  loveliness.     All  things  of  earth  are  thine, 
And  to  the  soul  thou  givest  speech  as  fair 
As  its  own  whiteness,  wordless  thoughts  which  are 
Hidden  in  being's  deep  to  thrill  and  stir 
Our  inmost  self  to  waking  and  delight- 
That  inmost  self  that  we  so  little  know, 
That  holds  our  human  godhood  as  the  burr 
Holds  the  live  seed  whose  life  shall  overflow 
In  tree  or  flower.     What  witchery  is  thine 
That  puts  the  world  on  canvas,  hills  aflame 
With  sunlight,  and  in  palpitating  glow 
The  broad  lush  meadows  in  the  noonday  heat 
Lying  a-dream;  the  river's  onward   flow, 
Mirrored  in  ripples  that  so  oft  repeat 
Themselves  the  river  seems  to  smile  and  know 
Itself  alive  with  motion ;  'tis  the  same 
That  babbles  to  the  sky  outside  our  door, 
The  same  sweet  stream  with  willows  bending  o'er, 
With  yellow  butterflies  o'erwinging  it, 
While  birds  within  the  happy  sunshine  flit; 
Yet  Art  somehow  has  seemed  to  give  it  soul, 
Of  sky,  field,  river,  made  a  perfect  whole. 


PEACE. 

August.     (1898.) 

Black-winged  and  huge,  the  cruel  bird  of  War, 
With  sharp,  strong  talons  and  with  bloody  beak, 

Brooded  above  the  world— within  his  claw 
He  held  a  nation  bleeding,  sore  and  weak, 

Prostrate  in  utter  helplessness  and  woe, 

Its  navies  playthings  of  relentless  Fate, 
Its  armies  beaten  by  its  watchful  foe, 

With  Death  forever  marching  in  their  wake. 

Pence  looked  from  far,  from  out  her  golden  day, 

Her  morning  luminous  with  rosy  light, 
The  perfumed  stillness  on  the  silence  lay, 

Upon  the  air  so  shining,  clear  and  white. 

She  stirred  her  wings,  the  waiting  nations  heard, 
One  note  she  sounded,  sweet  and  soft  and  clear, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  any  wandering  bird, 

Pulsing  through  all  the  breathing  atmosphere. 

Great  armies  moving  over  sun-scorched  plains 

Breathed  as  if  Dawn  had  touched  them  with  her  lips, 

And  Xoon's  hot,  fevered  pulses,  filled  with  pain, 
Were  cooled  and  soothed  by  her  soft  finger-tips. 

Hearts  which  had  throbbed  like  muffled  drum-beats,  slow, 
Heavy  with  the  sad  torture  of  a  nation's  pain, 

Threw  off  the  grinding  pressure  of  their  woe, 
As  the  strong  oak  lifts  up  its  boughs  again 


172 


The 


Star. 


When  the  swift  tempest  passes.     Peace!  sweet  peace, 
Hail  it  as  Love  hails  Love  when  she  draws  nigh; 

Hail  it  as  ye  hail  rest  when  pain  doth  cease, 
Hail  it  as  triumph  for  humanity. 

Hail  it  as  signal  that  Oppression's  might 
Is  broke  for  aye,  that  tyrants  nevermore 

Shall  beat  a  people  down  in  Freedom's  sight, 
Nor  fear    her  lifted  arm  will  smite  them  sore. 

THE  EVENING  STAR. 

The  sky,  like  one  great  shining  sapphire,  spreads 

Above  me  here,  undimpled  by  a  cloud; 

The  stars  are  hid  by  th'  golden,  flooding  light 

Of  the  sweet  Day,  filled  with  the  perfumed  breath 

Of  many  flowers.     The  breezes  play  with 

All  the  thousand  leaves  upon  the  many 

Trees,  till  they  ripple  as  with  laughter  in 

The  shining  sunlight,  and  Day  seems  to  smile 

As  if  a  soul  were  hidden  in  her  breast. 

The  mountains  gleam  in  soft  and  tender  lights, 

Growing  in  glory  as  the  Noon  draws  near. 

And  then,  transfigured  in  the  sunset's  glow 

Stand  glorified  in  wondrous  colors  there, 

As  if  heaven  opened  wide  her  gates 

And  let  her  glory  through.     O  the  first  star, 

Outflashing  in  the  West  as  daylight  dies, 

And  velvet-footed  Xight  draws  near, 

All  diademed  with  worlds!     Bright  star, 

The  whole  world  loves  ye,  and  its  eyes  are  lift 

To  watch  your  silent  coming,  as  ye  look 

Forth  alone  upon  the  Earth,  before  the 

Starry  heavens  marshal  their  countless  hosts 

To  light  the  rayless  dark  that  wraps  the  Vast 

Above  us.     Ye  seem  as  if  ye  were  the 

Kye  of  God,  looking  with  tender  light  on 

His  great  world  as  the  Day  passes,  to  see 

How  it  hath  fared,  and  what  its  many  needs. 

Thy  tender  light,  it  trembles  in  the  skies— 

The  far-off,  brooding  skies  of  Evening,  warm 

As  with  gracious  pity  for  Earth's  many 

Woes,  yet  smiling  with  cheer  and  blessed  hope 

Of  sweet  Tomorrow's  coming.     Behind  thee 

March  the  universe  of  worlds.     Behind  them 

All  is  God,  Our  Father;  and  looking  up 

To  thee,  I  wait  to  see  His  face,  for  He 

Holds  thee  and  me  within  His  loving  care. 

IN  CHINATOWN. 

Strange  is  the  man  before  my  vision  now, 
Dull,  heavy-eyed,  with  low,  receding  brow, 
Child  of  dead  ages,  not  the  living  Now. 

With  manhood  quenched,  his  wretched  soul  is  dumb, 
The  weight  of  centuries  on  his  shoulders  hung, 
With  eyes  nnlifted  and  with  hopes  unsung. 

He  knows  no  future,  but  Today  is  all ; 
About  him  hangs  dark  Superstition's  pall, 
And  specters  follow  where  his  footsteps  fall. 


The  Holy  Cross  gleams  near  across  the  way, 
The  same  sun  shines  upon  it,  the  same  day 
'Brightens  outside  as  darkens  where  we  stray. 

Darkens  within  the  temple  where  he  kneels 

To  his  dumb  idols,  and  the  daylight  steals 

Like  some  ghost's  shadow  which  the  dark  reveals. 

Smoking  his  pipe,  his  half-closed  eyes  grow  dim, 

Looking,  you  see  only  the  beast  in  him — 

Not  manhood's  face  nor  manhood's  strength  of  limb 

Dark  are  the  ways  amid  his  hovels  there, 

The  gambler's  den  is  hidden  in  his  lair, 

And  home,  sweet  home,  is  found  not  anywhere. 

O  Christ !  smile  on  this  corner  which  doth  lay 
Like  some  dark  blot  upon  the  face  of  Day, 
And  let  Hope's  footsteps  come  along  this  way. 

Let  Faith's  bright  morning  shed  its  holy  ray 
Along  the  haunts  where  these  poor  heathen  stray, 
And  idol  worship  to  God's  love  give  way. 


THE  UNWRITTEN  PAST.     (1899.) 

O  the  great  Past  !     How  full  it  is  of  soul, 
Of  names  undying  and  of  deeds  unsung! 

Can  pen  be  found  to  write  its  wondrous  whole  — 
To  tell  its  story  since  the  world  begun? 

How  far  and  dim  does  Time's  young  morning  stand 
When  Eden  bloomed  and  all  its  fragrance  poured 

LTpon  the  wondrous,  new-created  land, 
While  in  its  womb  was  all  the  future  stored. 

How  far  the  first  young  nation  that  did  rise 
To  proud  dominion  in  the  distant  East, 

How  faint  the  pennant  'neath  the  Orient  skies 
That  marked  the  power  of  earthly  king  and  priest. 

O  mighty  Past  !     Unwritten  and  unsung 

Are  deeds  of  glory  and  foul  deeds  of  crime, 

No  voice  amid  thy  silences  has  flung 
With  a  world-crash  whose  terror  was  sublime 

Words  that  would  tell  thy  inmost  deeds  of  wrong, 
Such  as  smite  Heaven  as  with  a  sense  of  woe, 

Nor  wove  into  the  melody  of  song 

Grand  deeds  unnumbered  that  but  God  doth  know. 

When  that  last  day  of  judgment  comes  to  men, 
When  God's  great  book  is  opened  and  we  see 

Each  thought,  each  deed  of  all  the  race,  O  then 
How  shall  we  tremble  at  man's  history  ! 


Tremble  at  wrong,  yet  in  joy,  in  goodness,  too, 
Wonder  at  love  and  all  its  holy  fire, 

Humble  ourselves  before  our  God  anew, 
And  loving  Him,  to  higher  life  aspire. 


173 


Unclassified  Poems. 


OUR  TWO  WORLDS. 

On  snowy  heights  white  Winter  sits  enthroned, 

Above  our  smiling  valleys  emerald  clad, 

Where  Summer  lingers  with  the  closing  Year, 

And  with  her  dainty  fingers  weaves  his  crown — 

His  fragrant  crown  of  buds  and  flowers. 

We  see  old  AVinter's  face,  his  icy  wand 

Clasped  by  his  frozen  fingers  as  he  leans 

His  head  on  the  far  blue  of  heaven, 

Sitting  the  monarch  of  that  mountain  world. 

We  do  not   feel  his  breath,  he  is  so  far 

From  our  sweet  vales,  nor  e'en  the  touch  of  frost. 

The  golden  orange  swings  its  ripening  spheres 

Amid  its  full-leaved  boughs  of  green; 

The  happy  birds  a  sweet  rich  tide  of  song 

Pour  on  the  sunny  air ;  the  wild  bees'  hum 

Is  like  an  undertone  of  melody; 

The  flies  are  rainbow-winged  and  swim  in  light, 

The  cricket  chirps  his  hymn  amid  the  grass, 

And  bright-winged  butterflies  do  gaily  pass, 

And  sip  sweet  nectar  from  the  blooming  flowers; 

The  green  grass  blades  are  lifted  to  the  Sun, 

The  spider's  web  upon  their  tips  is  hung, 

And  all  this  lower  world  is  bright  as  June, 

Sun,  stars  and  earth  and  everything  in  tune 

With  Summer  gladness.     But,  oh,  lift  your  eyes! 

See  Winter's  robes  are  round  him  on  the  heights, 

His  snowy  mantle  wraps  his  shoulders  round; 

His  footstool  is  the  frozen  cataract 

Where  the  hushed  thunders  of  the  waters  lie. 

Two  worlds  we  see,  the  one  of  chill  and  frost, 

The  other  where  all  chill  and  frost  are  lost; 

Cradled  in  sunshine  lies  this  lower  world, 

Cradled  in  cold  the  upper,  where  is  hurled 

The  snowy  avalanche  against  the  rocks 

Which  feel  the  thrill  of  the  wild  tempest's  shocks. 

O  valley  lands !    We  love  your  summer  heart, 

Lovely  are  ye  and  never  ye  have  part 

With  Winter's  life,  which  stands  upon  the  crest 

Of  those  vast  heights  where  cloudy  specters  rest. 

There  Winter  frowns,  here  lovely  Summer  smiles, 

And  all  the  cares  of  weary  Time  beguiles. 

IN  THE  FIELDS   OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

(An  address  to  Chautauqua  graduates  assembled  at  Long 

Beach,  Cal.,  August  28,  1885.) 

While  standing  here  I  hear  the  tramping 

Of  many  thousand  feet; 
They  are  passing  from  life's  levels, 

They  are  toiling  up  the  steep, 
Reaching  out  for  higher  knowledge, 

For  a  better  vanfage  ground, 
And  Chautauqua's  ever-widening  Circle 

Xobly,  grandly  clasps  them  round. 
See  what  glorious  heights !  what  summits ! 

What  vast  fields  of  knowledge  gleam, 
Like  some  Nebo's  mount  of  vision, 

Whence  the  Promised  Land  is  seen. 


Nevermore  life's  lower  levels 

Will  their  feet  contented  tread, 
Nevermore  the  dusky  twilight 

While  Truth's  sun  shines  overhead. 

Live  to  our  vision,  old  and  vanished  thrones, 

And  mighty  peoples  that  long  since  have  passed; 
We  hear  the  sound  of  warfare,  and  the  groans 

Of  dying  thousands,  and  the  angry  blast 
Of  trumpets,  and  we  see  the  shining  spears 

Bristling  along  the  heights,  the  arrows  sped, 
The  captured  cities,  womanhood  in  tears, 

And  murdered  captives  with  their  children  dead. 

Through  the  vast  empire  of  the  vanished  years, 

Where  not  an  echo  answers  to  our  tread, 
Whose  only  rivers  are  of  human  tears, 

Whose  only  people  are  the  silent  dead, 
Whose  only  cities  are  the  ruins  old 

Of  palace  halls  and  fallen  temples'  shrine, 
And  broken  columns  stony  white  and  cold — 

Time's  marble  ghosts  that  mock  the  pale  moonshine; 
To  ancient  Thebes  upon  the  far-off  Nile, 

To  buried  cities  on  Italia's  plains, 
In  the  warm  sun  of  ancient  Egypt's  smile, 

To  mighty  Rome,  where  godlike  Caesar  reigns; 
To  the  dim  twilight  that  before  the  dawn 

Of  England's  day  lay  cold  upon  its  isles, 
We  wander  on;  again  above  it  all 

Glorious  and  warm  the  living  sunlight  smiles. 

Wide  opes  for  us  the  starry  deep  of  skies, 

We  trace  its  golden  page,  its  story  con, 
To  the  far  North  the  Bear  before  us  flies, 

While  through  the  East  comes  giant  Orion, 
Standing  with  arm  uplift  sublimely  grand, 

Marching  all  night  the  highway  to  the  West, 
With  his  broad  shield  within  his  outstretched  hand, 

Through  which  not  mighty  Mars  could  pierce  his  breast. 
There's  not  one  golden  star  that  gilds  the  Night, 

One  shining  world  within  its  starry  crown, 
One  planet  woven  in  its  lyre  of  light 

But  sends  a  heavenly  message  to  us  down. 
We  hear  the  sounding  music  of  the  spheres, 

And  catch  the  keynote  of  their  heavenly  strain, 
As  circling  down  the  pathway  of  the  years 

They  sound  anew  Creation's  grand  refrain. 

Ye  who  have  trod  our  Circle's  fullest  round, 

Your  lives  have  broadened  like  the  world  at  Dawn 
As  it  steals  onward  from  the  darkened  bound 

Of  the  Night's  shadow,  and  the  Day  is  born. 
Fair  Truth  has  bridged  your  dark  ravines  of  Doubt, 

And  History  spanned  the  chasms  of  the  years; 
Astronomy  her  star-sown  paths  spread  out, 

Creation's  story  on  the  rocks  appears; 
Art  in  her  marble  poems  you  have  read, 

And  in  divine  Comedia  have  seen 
The  wondrous  pictures  that  her  brush  has  spread 

In  colors  true  the  centuries  between. 


174 


'Mid  Olden  Days. 


For  you  the  kings  of  noble  Thought  draw  near, 

You  mingle  with  them  and  your  hear  their  speech; 
You  listen!  Shakespeare  fills  your  wondering  ear, 

You  clasp  great  Pindar's  hand,  and  walk  with  each 
Philosopher  of  those  far  ancient  days; 

You  catch  Hypatia's  words,  you  silent  steal 
With  Socrates  along  familiar  ways; 

You  walk  with  Bryant,  and  with  him  you  kneel 
Within  the  groves,  the  temples  vast  and  grand— 

The  God-built  temples  of  the  world's  first  years, 
Then  you  with  Solon  and  with  Raphael  stand, 

With  Galileo  catch  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

With  all  this  conquered  realm  of  human  thought, 
Life  still  will  broaden  as  you  onward  go; 

Be  yours  like  theirs,  who  long  since  lived  and  wrought, 
"The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim  to  know." 

'MID  OLDEN  DAYS.     (1893.) 

The  palms  and  peppers  swaying  o'er  my  head 

Are  like  new  friends,  with  faces  strange  and  sweet ; 

They  were  not  in  my  childhood,  I  did  meet 

In  those  young  days,  which  now  so  long  have  fled, 

But  oak  and  beech,  and  the  great  pines  which  led 

The  forest  armies;  somber,  grand  and  tall 

They  stood,  like  monarchs  looking  over  all 

The  wooded  hosts  encircling  their  feet. 

And  there  its  torch  the  flaming  maple  lit, 

When  Autumn  came,  and  all  the  world  grew  bright 

With  gold  and  scarlet,  and  the  mellow  light 

Of  Autumn  suns,  and  happy  I  did  sit, 

Breathing  sweet  Childhood's  air,  while  watching  flit 

The  year's  last  birds  across  the  high,  far  blue, 

While  fell  the  dead  leaves  round  me,  colored  through 

With  splendor  like  Summer's  sunset  light. 

Golden  the  haze  that  Autumn's  fingers  drew 
Across  the  skies  and  glowing  deeps  of  air, 
While  days  lay  cradled,  as  if  dreaming  there 
Of  Summer  gone,  of  blossoms  and  the  dew 
With  its  white  gems  clear,  shining  through 
Spring's  emerald  grasses,  till,  day  by  day, 
The  hills  grew  dun,  and  all  the  woods  were  gay 
In  scarlet  riot  till  they  all  were  bare. 

And  then  to  noisy  roar  the  river  woke, 
And  marshaled  clouds  grew  angry  with  the  storm, 
And  myriad  snowflakes  from  their  bosoms  broke, 
And  'mid  the  snowdrifts  was  the  Winter  born. 

OUR  SUMMER  WORLD.     (1893.) 

The  world  is  full  of  sunshine,  full  of  song; 
Birds  sing  rejoicingly  and  pour  their  tide 
Of  tuneful  melody  from  bush  and  tree— 
The  happy  birds  whose  life  is  song,  whose  breath 
Is  music.     God  must  love  them  well  and  hold 
Them  in  His  tender  care;  not  a  sparrow, 
Even,  falleth  to  the  ground  but  that  He 
Seeth  it.     And  note  the  insects'  hum,  which 


Brimmeth  o'er  with  gladness;  it  is  a  song 

The  happy  things  breathe  through  their  wings  unto 

The  fragrant  air— breathe  through  all  their  tiny 

Frames  to  the  great  world,  with  suns  and 

Stars  filling  the  vault  above,  like  dust  from 

God's  own  fingers — dust  of  light  from  the  far, 

Pave  of  heaven.     The  butterflies,  those  winged 

Jewels  which  flutter  in  the  Summer  air, 

Feeding  on  net-tared  sunbeams,  and  on  the 

Hidden  honey  of  the  flowers,  dot  the 

Sweet  air  with  beauty.     The  crickets  chirp  in 

Undertones  a  note  of  merrymaking; 

The  caterpillar  his  many  colors 

Shows  unto  the  light.     The  rivers  tinkle 

Softly  as  they  flow;  the  grass  lifts  up  its 

Tiny  blades  where  fall  caressingly  the 

Golden  sunbeams;  and  the  flowers,  like  God's 

Smile,  brighten  all  things,  while  their 

Delicious  odors,  sweet  as  melody 

That  thrills  our  hearts  unspeakably  as  melts 

Sound  into  Silence,  make  Earth  seem  still  as 

If  'twere  Eden.     A  fountain  drops  its  pearls 

And  pours  its  diamonds  sparkling  with  the 

Light  upon  the  emerald  sward.     A  happy 

Song-bird  dips  its  beak  and  splashes  its  small 

Wings  within  the  mimic  sea,  then  into 

Notes  that  hold  the  gladness  of  air,  sky  and 

Sun,  and  green-boughed  trees,  and  tiny  opening 

Bud,  and  perfect  flower,  and  ever-flowing 

Streams,  and  hum  of  bees,  and  sound  of  children's 

Laughter  it  breaks,  till  all  the  wide,  glad  space 

Receives  its  baptism  of  song.     God's  world  is  fair, 

The  blue  sky  smiles,  the  sunshine  sheds  its  gold, 

The  mountains  lift  their  faces  to  the  Sun, 

The  shining  rivers  crystal-footed  run, 

And  every  day  is  the  same  story  told, 

In  God's  great  world  of  beauty  manifold. 

Tongued  silences  and  odors  rich  as  wine, 

And  colors,  language-laden,  all  combine 

To  speak  the  glory  of  this  Summer-World  divine. 

COCOANUT  ISLAND— HILO  BAY. 

A  fairy  island  dreaming  on  the  deep; 

The  cool  palm  shadows,  lying  as  asleep 

In  the  clear  waters  circling  the  green  land, 

Where,  in  their  gracious  beauty,  they  do  stand 

Waving  their  feathery  branches.     Everywhere 

The  sea  is  motionless  and  gleaming  fair 

As  silver  in  the  sunlight.     To  the  beach 

The  slow  tide's  silver  fingers  reach; 

The  light  waves  creep  with  lapping  sound 

To  the  low  points,  and  linger  'round, 

Leaving  soft  kisses  on  their  tender  green; 

And  diamond  drops  of  water  hide  between 

The  moss-grown  rocks,  like  emeralds  lain 

On  the  green  isle's  breast,  and  resting  there, 

With  plumage  sun-like,  tropically  fair, 

Are  strange,  bright  birds,  whose  songs,  if  songs  they  »ing, 

Must  be  most  marvelous,  to  match  the  wing 


175 


Unclassified  Poems. 


In  beauty  and  completeness;  and  skies  lean, 
Like  a  clear,  shining  sapphire,  o'er  the  green, 
Fair  island.     Water  and  sky  meet  on  the  brim 
Of  the  horizon's  verge,  and  the  clear  Night,  dim 
At  first  with  its  few  shining  stars,  as  drops 
O'er  the  sea  and  plumy  palm-trees,  tops 
The  darkness,  brightens  with  glowing  light 
Of  countless  star-worlds  breaking  on  the  sight, 
Noiselessly  as  if  new-born  within  the  vast 
Infinity  of  ether.     A  mirror  cast 
The  waveless  sea,  and  in  its  pulseless  deeps 
Another  sky  with  all  its  star-worlds  sleeps. 


WHITTIER.     (1893.) 

Great  souls  there  are  who  live  and  pass  from  earth, 

Leaving  a  glory  brightening  with  the  years, 

As  plainer  to  us  in  their  lives  appears 

The  angel  that  was  hidden  in  their  worth. 

Their  thoughts  were  like  a  garden  where  no  dearth 

Of  flowers  or  beauty  is,  and  where  gleam 

Colors  with  sweetness  blended,  like  a  dream 

Of  heaven  scarce  touched  with  tint  of  earth. 

Such  was  thy  life,  O  poet  whom  we  sing! 

Thy  songs  were  like  the  Day-Star  shining  clear 

When  Dawn  nears  and  the  Night  is  swift  to  close; 

Hope  shone  forth  in  them;  Freedom,  wakening,  rose 

From  their  tongued  deeps,  no  longer  blind  and  dumb, 

The  slaves'  chains  loosed,  their  longed-for  noon  had  come. 


METEORIC  SHOWERS. 

(Midnight  on  Echo  Mountain,  1894.) 

Bending  above  us  is  Night's  cloudless  blue, 
The  moon  afar  sinking  within  the  west, 
Blushing  deep  red  as  on  the  Ocean's  breast 

A  moment  lingering  ere  she  sinks  from  view, 
Saying  good-night  to  all  the  many  stars, 
And  all  the  many  hills.     The  planet  Mars 

Uprises  soon,  and  looks  upon  us  there, 

Sitting  to  watch  each  meteor's  passing  glare. 

We  sit  so  still,  so  wonderingly  we  gaze 

On   the   wide,   starry   deeps!     Out    from   the   North, 
From  its  far  silence  swiftly  shooting  forth, 

Come  the  bright  strangers  through  the  pathless  ways, 
Trailing  their  light  past  sleeping  planets  high, 
Past  starry  suns  that  twinkle  where  they  fly 

Through  midnight  silences,  as  if  to  light 

To  some  sky  chamber  hidden  from  our  sight. 

What  is  your  mission,  ye  swift-fleeting  things, 
And  what  your  meaning?     Are  ye  messengers 
With  a  God-word  to  some  new  world  that  stirs 

Instinct  with  soul-life,  which  immortal  springs 
In  the  new  morning  of  some  starry  dawn? 
Or  there  amid  the  stars  is  some  grand  science  born 

Of  higher  knowledge  that  can  transmit  thought 

From  world  to  world — some  science  man  has  not? 


Are  ye  the  flash  signs  on  electric  waves 

That  sweep  the  universe,  sent  by  star-souls 
To  other  star-souls,  wheresoever  rolls 

This  unseen  tide,  which,  viewless,  ever  laves 
Created  vastness,  or  but  fiery  dust 
Of  mighty  comets  which  is  earthward  thrust 

From  the  vast  spaces  of  their  boundless  sweep 

Into  the  vortex  of  our  starry  deep? 

We  musing  sit,  while  in  the  dewy  dark 
The  valley  sleeps,  but  like  another  sky, 
Filled  full  of  stars,  beneath  us  it  does  lie, 

Its  shining  lights  but  the  electric  spark 

Which  man  has  caught,  imprisoned  by  his  skill, 
And  made  the  servant  of  his  tireless  will; 

And  shall  he  yet  from  far-off  star  to  star 

Make  it  his  courier  that  shall  the  bar 

Of  the  world  Silence  lift  and  give  us  speech — 
Earth  with  the  planets?     Ruddy  Mars  we  see 
And  long  to  pierce  his  shining  mystery. 

Can  we  not  find  some  messenger  to  reach 
His  starry  threshold  through  electric  might, 
Making  a  pathway  for  us  through  the  Night 

Speech-paved?     O  shining  Mars!  Men  halting  wait 

Some  open  sesame  through  thy  blazing  gate. 

THE  MODERN  PRINTING-PRESS.     (1895.) 

What  power  is  it  that  makes  Today  so  great, 

This  new  Tomorrow  of  old  Time  so  fair — 

So  different  from  its  Yesterdays?    What 

Has  broadened  so  our  thought-horizons?    Ah! 

'Tis  that  upon  the  wide  expanse  of  life 

The  world  is  thrown;  the  lettered  Press  tells  all 

Its  daily  history.     The  days  are  no 

More  fruitless  than  in  elder  years,  when  men, 

With  slow,  uneager  eyes,  wrought  each  alone, 

Undreaming  of  his  brother,  and  feeling 

Seldom  the  warm,  subtle  touch  of  spirit. 

Not  as  now  in  those  old  days  did  we  clasp 

Hands  sunset  with  sunrise,  and  read  the  whole 

World's  story,  pulse  answering  pulse,  while  all 

Girded  themselves  for  Progress.     LTnto  us 

Some  new  marvel  doth  each  hour,  each  day  bring 

To  be  brooded  on;  some  new  thought,  or  some 

High  purpose  that  shall  move  mankind,  nor  let 

The  race  slip  downward.     Ah,  mightier  than 

The  Sword  the  hands  of  those  who  guide  the  Pen, 

And  lift  the  sleepy  lids  of  ignorance, 

Make  plain  the  unguessed  riddles  of  our  lives. 

'Tis  they  who  make  these  later  days  so  great. 

Invention  hath  wrought  for  them  and  builded 

For  them  Time's  latest  wonder — the  Modern  Press. 

Looking  at  this  gigantic,  iron-ribbed 

And  noisy  monster,  like  some  hugh  Cyclops 

Feeding  on  the  white-webbed  and  letterless 

Paper,  which  in  a  breath  it  draws  through  its 

Vast  frame,  leaving  the  impress  on  it  of 

The  great  world's  action— the  story  of  the 

Way  God  hath  ruled  men  since  Yesterday — telling 


176 


and  tlie  Stars. 


What  Change  hath  wrought  and  white-faced  Purity, 

And  what  black  and  hydra-headed  Crime  hath 

Done;  how  Peace  hath  smiled  and  grim-visaged  War 

Hath  breathed  with  threatening  thunders;  how  winds  have 

Swept  with  cyclonic  footsteps,  and  mighty 

Floods  surged  through  river  arteries  and  burst 

Them,  leaping  on  the  land  and  swallowing 

.Men  like  atoms;  how,  in  high 

Places,  men  have  hatched  out  party  schemes,  and 

The  smooth  robber,  wearing  Friendship's  guise  filched 

Gold  with  treacherous  speech  from  trusting  dupes; 

How  Science  hath  sped  on,  unveiling  wonders, 

Till  all  the  Story  of  a  Day  is  told 

In  one  short  moment's  space.     I  could  but  marvel, 

While  self  spake  with  self,  and  said,  this  wondrous 

Iron  Thing  is  clothed  upon  with  mind;  human 

Thought  is  on  it  like  a  garment.     Not  a 

Wheel  but  is  mind-touched  and  inspired  to 

Action.     Xot  a  revolving  cylinder, 

Or  a  swift-rolling  belt,  rushing  like  a  flying 

Comet,  but  is  the  full  embodiment 

Of  inventive  thought.     It  is  marvelous ! 

A  creation  almost  godlike  in  its 

Completeness.     Unimpressionable,  yet 

Quick— answering  to  the  sway  of  mind ! 

Thoughts  leaping  from  its  metal  ringers  as  if 

A  human  brain  filled  all  the  massive  iron 

Frame,  and  thought  stirred  at  the  lever's  touch  to 

Finest  action  !     O  the  age  is  great !     Men, 

Will  and  matter,  dead,  inert  and  senseless, 

Thrill  like  a  living  soul  and  stand  forth  in 

Wondrous  combinations,  each  complicate 

Machine  doing  the  work  of  scores  of 

Brawny  arms,  as  if  God  said  unto  the 

World,  "Hest  and  let  Matter  serve  thee." 

NIGHT  AND  THE  STARS.     (1891.) 
I  sat  the  other  eve  beneath  the  tent 
Of  starlit  sky.     Those  shining  worlds  swinging 
Through  space  so  infinite,  through  voids  so  vast, 
Made  not  a  sound  that  my  dull  ear  could  hear. 
The  wind,  soft-stirring  as  an  infant's  breath, 
Brought  me  but  fragrance  of  the  blooming  flowers, 
But  ne'er  a  sound  wafted  from  sun  or  star. 

There  Heaven's  warrior  with  his  mighty  shield- 
Orion    old  as  Time,  marched,  as  he  has 
Marched  since  first  the  Earth  began,  with  lifted 
Arm,  sublimely  threatening  all  the  starry 
Powers.     That  polar  monster,  the  Ursa  Major 
Of  the  skies,  turned  changeless  front  the  frozen 
Pole  unto,  as  if  to  find  the  hidden 
Chambers  of  the  cold.     Cassiopea 
Leaned  like  a  goddess  in  her  regal  chair, 
Her  robes  all  star-fringed  and  her  eyes  shining 
With   light.     Andromeda,   the  glory   of 
All  starry  worlds  upon  her  forehead,  filled 
The  near  heavens  with  beauty.     Perseus, 
Still  watching  her,  and  all  the  constellated 
Worlds  familiar  with  her  story,  stood  by, 


Twinkling  with  gladness.    The  Milky  Way, 

Thick-sown  with  worlds  as  is  the  ocean's  deep 

With  water  drops,  stretched  to  infinity 

Beyond  the   farthest  ken  of  human 

Vision,  farther  than  thought  can  range  into 

The  unknowable  realm  of  God's  untrod 

Kternity.     The  Night  breathed  stillness.     The 

Beaded  dew  sparkled  like  diamonds  where 

The  white-robed  lily  stood,  and  on  the  rose  which 

With  bowed  head  her  rosary  seemed  telling, 

The  odor  of  the  violet  was  like 

The  breath  of  angels,  and  the  swaying  boughs 

Or  palm  and  orange  stirred  like  holy  wings 

Of  hovering  seraphs,  while  down  the  ages 

To  my  inner  ear  came  ringing  like  a 

Breath  outblown  from  those  constellated  worlds 

That  Gloria  in  Etcelsis  which  the 

Psalmist  sang:     "The  heavens  declare  the  glory 

Of  our  Father  God,  and  wherever  shine 

These  worlds  of  His,  His  voice  is  heard. 

Day  unto  day  doth  utter  speech,  while  night 

Unto  night  doth  knowledge  boundless  show."     And 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  stars  did  all  their 

Faces  lift,  worshiping  in  stillness,  while 

A  soft,  white  mist  crept  landward  from  the  sea, 

Veiling  the  sky  in  folds  diaphanous, 

'1'h rough  which  white  moonbeams  fell  in  silver  silence. 

IN  VALE  AND  ON  HEIGHT.     (1892.) 

I  walk  within  the  quiet  garden  places, 

Where  tropic  palms  and  orange  blossoms  grow, 

And  gay  poinsettias  upward  lift  their  faces 
Above  the  whiteness  of  the  lily's  snow. 

Where  roses  bloom  in  all  their  fragrant  splendor, 

And  modest  violets  open  to  the  light, 
Ana  morning-glory  bells  ring  soft  and  tender, 

A   faint,  sweet  requiem  for  the  passing  Xight. 

Where  fuchsias  swing  and  blush  in  radiant  gladness. 

And  lilies  lift  their  censers  to  the  Sun, 
And  the  glad  bree/es  riot  in  their  madness. 

Kissing  each  blossom  as  they  onward  run. 

Where  purple  pansies  dream  in  quiet  beauty, 
And  sweet  alyssum  pours  its  fragrant  wine, 

And  with  the  emblems  of  man's  highest  duty — 
The  Cross  and  Crown— swayeth  the  passion-vine. 

But  here,  above  these  vales  where  Summer  lingers. 

Lying  on  softest  bed  of  grasses  green, 
Slipping  the  stars  upon  his  frozen  fingers. 

From  the  far  mounts  does  hoary  Winter  lean. 

Brothers  of  Time  these  monumental  mountains, 
The  valley's  sentinel  who  guard  and  keep 

Our  vales  made  verdant  with  snow-melted  fountains 
Which  from  their  sides  in  crystal  streamlets  leap. 

Grand  are  these  mounts  with  planets  circling  near  the 
Hearing  the  songs  of  star-worlds  and  of  suns. 

With  clash  of  winds  the  mighty  tempests  cheer  them, 
With  Gloria  in  Ejrcelnis  rivers  run. 


177 


Unclassified  Poems. 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  BROWNING.*     (1886.) 

He  is  no  man  of  the  people,  for  the  people  know  him  not, 
They  but  catch  the  veriest  tatters  of  his  soul-wrought 

mystical  thought; 

He  dwelleth  above  them,  breatheth  an  air  whose  light 
They   have    never   looked    on,    never    have    seen    through 

their  night. 

It  is  alight  with  the  flashes  of  soul,  it  is  full  of  the  deep 
Flood  of  feeling,  and  full  of  the  sentient  sweep 
Of  fancies  that  soar,  broad-winged,  to  the  skies, 
Of  soul-walks,  where  lonely  he  wanders,   truths   hidden 
and  dim  to  surprise. 

Let  us  walk  in  the  way  that  he's  traversed, 
let  us  gather  his  books 

And  look  them  carefully  over,  and  tread  in  the  humble 
nooks 

Of  his  fancies — the  highest  we  never  may  reach, 

Unless  some  ladder  he's  dropped,  some  wide-open  stair 
way  of  speech. 

Let  us  take  now,  for  instance,  his  story,  the 

one  we  so  often  have  read, 
Of  Christmas  Eve  in  the  church — we'll  follow  him  softly, 

we'll  tread 

Till  all  the  quaint  scene  that  he  pictures  opens  to  sight, 
Till  we  see  the  "little  old- faced  peaking  sister,"  and 

the  chapel's  wonderful  light. 

Wonderfully  real  the  scene  that  he  paints  there— 
we  see  it  again, 

The  old    fat   woman   purring   with   pleasure,   "the   shoe 
maker's  lad,"  and  the  men 

Snuffing  "the  dew  of  Heaven,"  as  they  sit  there  at  their 
ease — 

Quiet   of  conscience  are  they,  self-righteous,  with   noth 
ing  to  tease 

Or  to  fret  them.     How  full  of  disgust  does  he  fill  us, 
as  holding  them  up 

In  the  light  of  dissection  he  pulls  them  apart.     The 
horrible  rut 

Which  grovelers  tread  in  he  makes  us  to  see,  and  with 
him  we  turn 

To  go  out  of  the  chapel,  away  from  the  crowd,  with  feel 
ings  that  yearn 

Toward  the  skies.     How  pure  are  the  stars ! 

How  grand  is  the  sweep  of  the  sky ! 
How  holy  its  silence!     The  clouds  like  God's 

garments  sweep  by! 

We  grow  calm;  we  rise  upward,  and  seemingly  near, 
God  speaketh  to  us;  in  mountains  and  stars 

His  voice  do  we  hear. 

And  then,  oh,  what  vision  he  brings  to  our  gaze  as 

we  look 
As  we  stand  in  this  grand  colonnade— Geth- 

semane  shook 
Once  with  the  presence  He  brings  to  our  sight. 

He  makes  us  to  see 
*Read   at  a   Chautauqua  Assembly,   July   19,    188C. 


Not  the  world,  not  the  grandeur  of  night  witli 

its  stars  and  its  sea, 
But  something  holier  far — a  presence  the  hem 

of  whose  robe 
Is  dropping  with  mercy — no  face  does  the 

tremulous  globe 
Of  his  vision  behold,  only  the  back  of  a  form 

in  vesture  of  white; 
His  soul  leaps  to  the  fact  of  the  God-Christ— 

he  feasteth  his  sight 

On  the  figure  receding— through  the  storm  he 
leadeth  us  still 

In  the  visions  he  sees,  the  questions  he  pon 
ders;  the  force  of  his  will 

Is  as  the  sweep  of  a  wing.     His   faith  it  is 
strong,  it  is  pure,  it  is  high, 

A  mirror  of  truth  and  of  trust,  a  broad  open 
door  to  the  sky. 

But  what  is  the  lesson  taught  in  the  poem 

which  we  have  read, 
Which  is   running  through  and  through  it 

like  a  shining  golden  thread, 
While  he  waits  as  if  God's  finger  had  hushed 

him  to  silence  there, 
As  not  knowing  the  way  to  worship  he  stands 

in  the  house  of  prayer — 

Or  follows  the  Christ— laying  hold,  in  despair 
of  the  hem 

Of  his  vesture,  with  all  his  soul's  needs  look 
ing  up  to  him  then? 

Study  it  closely,  read  it  well,  and  the  golden 
thread  will  glow 

Like  a  plumb-line  dropped   from  the  Living 
Love  to  the  love  of  hearts  below. 

'Mid  the  pomp  and  the  glitter  of  worship,  the 

snarl  of  the  creeds 
That  are  dead  with  formality,  dry  as  dust, 

unfit  for  the  needs 

Of  the  soul  that  is  faint  in  its  quest  for  the  truth, 
He  stands  with  his  soul  full  of  hunger, 

"forms  burlesque  and  uncouth," 

'Neath  which  he  sees  the  disguise  of  the 

Tempter,  his  trap  to  ensnare, 
Weary   of   "the   pig-of-lead-like   presence"   of 

the  preacher  there. 
'Mid  the  lull  in  the  wind  and  the  rain,  with 

the  moon  risen  high, 
He  flings  himself  out  from  the  chapel  to 

breathe  'neath  the  infinite  sky. 

Away  from  the  truths  falsely  twisted,  in  the 

fog  of  conceit 
And  of  ignorance  looming  immense,  yet 

looking  unmeet 


178 


Morning. 


For  the  soul,  shedding  no  light  but  dim   rays 

that  never  could  guide 
The  soul  out  of  darkness,  he  seeks  for  the 

Christ;  whate'er  should  betide 

This  guest  he  must  keep.     The  rivers  run   to 

the  sea,  the  stars  roll 
In  their  infinite  orbits,  and  so  ever  perforce 

must  man's  soul 

Tend  upward  to  God — straight  up  through  the  world 
To  the  heart  of  its  Maker,  there  to  rest.     God's 

love  is  unfurled 

In  its  tenderness,  and  the  poet,  if  I  read 

him  aright, 
Feels  that  form  of  worship  the  best  for  his  soul 

that  lifts  him  quite 
Face  to   face  with  his   Father,  through  no 

trammel  of  creed, 
Or  dead   forms  to  shut  from  his  soul's  sight 

its  infinite  need 

Of    forgiveness.     God's    measureless    love   is 

his  cradle  of  rest ; 
Like  the  sunlight  'tis  round  him;  he  would 

stand  where  'tis  best 
For  him  and  the  world  of  his  brothers;  a 

pathway,  maybe, 
So  creed-paved,  he'd  stumble,  may  help  them 

to  walk,  and  perchance  thus  to  see 

Through   the    form   and   the  symbol   what   else 
would  be  hid  to  their  sight; 

Some  must  feel  their  way  through  the  dark 
ness  while  some  walk  in  the  light. 

But  strong  are  the  pinions  of  faith  which  our 
poet  hath  spread, 

And  sure  is  the  sweep  of  his  wings  from  the 
earth  to  his  God  overhead. 


MORNING. 
The  luminous  Morn  stands  on  the  hills, 

Day  lifts  her  eyelids,  fringed  with  golden  beams, 

The  birds  sing  as  if  waking  from  Night's  dreams; 
And  gladness  the  wide  realm  of  Nature  fills, 
While  gurgling  laughter   from  the  tiny  rills 

Mingles  with  the    wind's  breath;  the  tall  trees  gleam 
With  the  first  sunrays;  each  grassy  blade 
Is  pearl-tipped;  Sunlight    and  Shade 

Clasp  hands  beneath  the  many  trees, 
While  overhead,  all  yellow-winged  and  fair, 

Soul  of  a  flower,  the  butterfly 
Findeth  a  pathway  through  the  sunny  air, 

Afar  I  see,  as  if  another  sky, 
The  hushed  Sea's  breast,  its  great  heart  still, 

Its  waves  soft-lapping  the  white  sands, 
As  if  'twere  mother  of  some  sleeping  rill 
'Twere  loath  to  wake;  the  islands  fill 
Wide  spaces  on  the  harbor's  breast, 
Like  rounded  emeralds  on  the  waters  prest. 


I 

179 


High  and  still  higher  the  bright  sun  climbs, 

Kisses  the  earth  like  some    new  lover, 
Stirred  by  its  beauty,  passionate 
With  the  warm  blood  of  youth  innate 

With  tenderness;  his  warm  beams  hover 
Where  buds  sleep  and  blossoms  ope  their  eyes, 
Where  trees  tower  upward  to  the  skies, 
Reaching  for  heaven;  the  mosses  cling 
To  earth,  but  still  the  sun  gazes 
With  loving  eye  upon  their  faces 
Touching  them  softly  till  they  smiling  yield 
To  his  fond  wooing.     Forest  and  field, 

And  all  the    wide  sea's  restless  heart, 
And  all  the  singing  birds  and  running  brooks 

Share  now  his  touch,  and  all  have  part 
In  the  day's  glory.  Into  forest  nooks, 
Some  glad  beams  steal  silently,  and  make 
Glory,  and  life,  and  loveliness  awake. 

Berkeley,  November,  1894. 

THE  OTHER  DAY. 

Oh,  did  you  see  the  dappled  sky 

The  other  day? 
A  thousand   little  airy  things 
Which  looked  like  snowy  birds  whose  wings 
Were  all  so  widely  spread  to  fly, 

Were  floating  in  the  blue  away, 

The  other  day. 

They  called  them  clouds,  but  I  could  see, 

The  other  day, 

An  angel  there  with  smiling  face, 
And  there  a  lovely  woman  trace; 
And  something  which  did  seem  to  me 

A  mighty  ship  with  pennons  gay, 

The  other  day. 

I  wonder  where  within  the  air, 

The  other  day, 

The  <rolden  ship  was  sailing  to; 
I  saw  one  star  a-peeping  through 
The  sunset  gates  so  bright  and  fair, 

While  drifted  slow  the  clouds  away, 

The  other  day. 

Oh,   where  is   Fairyland  so  bright? 

The  other  day 

I  dreamed  it  lay  below  the  West, 
Or  else  above  the  mountain's  crest. 
And  that  those  clouds  so  fleecy  white 

Were  sailing  to  its  isles  of  light, 

The  other  day. 

What   did   they   find   in   Fairyland 

The  other  day? 
Perhaps  a  little  girl  like  me, 
Perhaps  some  birdie  singing  free, 
Perhaps  a  boy  upon  the  strand 

Among  the  star-worlds  there  at  play, 

The  other  dav. 


Unclassified  Poems. 


SWEET  CONTENT.     (1904.) 

I  wish  that  a  little  bird  were  I, 

Singing  beneath  the  cloudless  sky, 

Singing,  just  singing  the  whole  day  through, 

Under  the  beautiful  sunny  blue. 

And  Johnny  looked  with  a  longing  gaze 
Down  through  the  beautiful  sunlit  ways, 
Where  a  bird  poured  forth  from  a  leaf-clad  tree 
A  song  of  the  richest  melody. 

And  I  wish  that  I  were  a  rosy  fair, 
Filling  with  sweetness  the  summer  air, 
Just  a  rose,  said  Jenny  to  me, 
Pretty  as  this  white  rose  you  see. 

Then  little  Mary,  with  eyes  so  blue, 
And  clust'ring  curls  of  a  golden  hue, 
And  a  lovely  dimple  just  tucked  in 
Like  a  rose-leaf  pure  in  her  pretty  chin, 
Just  mamma's  girl  I'd  rather  be, 
Like  God  did  make  when  He  made  me. 


BUTTERFLIES  AND  BEES.     (1884.) 

Sweet  little  butterfly, 

Roaming  'mid  the  flowers, 
Gay  be  your  happy  life 

Through  the  bright  summer  hours. 
Lift,  lift  your  golden  wings, 

And  through  the  sunny  sky 
Float  at  your  own  sweet  will, 

O  darling  butterfly! 

And  pretty  honey-bee, 

Now  singing  on  your  way, 
Sipping  sweets  from  the  rose, 

O  stay  with  me,  I  pray; 
Here  the  golden  sunshine 

Smiles  all  the  whole  year  long, 
And  never  comes  a  day 

When  birds  forget  their  song. 

And  the  lilies  blossom, 

And  the  roses  smile, 
Laughing  in  the  sunshine, 

Nodding  all  the  while, 
As  if  they  had  some  secrets 

They  would  like  to  tell, 
Some  happy  little  story 

Hid  in  leaf  or  bell. 

I  wonder  if  they  tell  it. 

To  the  butterflies  and  bees, 
Or  the  birds  that  sing 

Within  the  leafy  trees? 
If  they  do,  honey-bees, 

Won't  you  come  this  way, 
And  buzzing  softly,  tell  me 

What  it  is  they  say? 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Little  butterfly,  with  your  golden  wing, 
Are  you  a  child  of  the  Sun— do  you  spring 
From  the  warm  kiss  he  has  given  the  air, 
In  whose  tides  of  rich  splendor  you  float? 
Or,  say,  are  you  kin   to  the   note 
Which  the  bird  flingeth   free 
In  rivers  of  song  from  the  tree? 

Are  the  roses  your  sisters— the  violets,  too, 

Which  look  born  of  the  skies,  O  wing-blossom  like  you? 

Who  marketh  the  paths  you  travel  today 

With  your  fluttering  wings?     O  whither  away, 

As  upward  you  rise  as  you   fade   from  our  sight 

In  Day's  golden  ocean  of  beauty  and  light? 


BIRD  ANTHEMS.     (1884.) 

The  woods  are  full  of  voices;  anthems  ring 

From  the  high  trees  where  feathered  choirs  pour  out 

Their  jubilee — full-throated — sing  to  the 

Glad  Morning,  which,  all  dewy-eyed,  wakes  and 

From  the  arms  of  Night  springs  glorious  as 

Eden.     What  say  the  birds?     What  living  soul 

Of  thankfulness  in  liquid  music  voices 

Itself  in  their  full-chorused  harmony? 

Know  they  of  Him  who  made  them — Him  whose  own 

Hand  fashioned  each  tiny  wing— so  fashioned 

It  as  to  secure  the  perfect  poise,  and 

The  sure  swiftness  of  each  sudden  flight?     O 

Bird !  losing  thyself  within  the  deeps  of 

Air,  lost  to  our  straining  vision — within 

The  unseen  chambers  of  the  sky  what  meetest 

Thou?     Some  intangible  presence  of 

Ministering  messenger  who  with  no 

Art  that  we  call  language,  but  with  some 

Higher  speech  of  subtler  power  wakes  thee 

To  knowledge — stirs  within  the  breast  of  bird, 

Of  singing  lark  and  soaring  eagle  that 

Which  gives  will  to  mount  to  the  far  heavens; 

Gives  song  unto  singing  things,  a  soul 

To  praise,  and  Him  to  know  while  feeling  His 

Presence  in   His  tender  care,  without  which 

Not  even  the  sparrow  falls,  nor  the  young 

Ravens  cry?     Is  bird-song  something  more  than 

Sweet,  full-throated  melody— more  than  the 

Mere  gladness  of  simple  being?     More 

Than  the  joy  which  Summer  sunshine  gives,  spread 

Goldenly  amid  the  boughs,  where  the  soft 

Air  floats  flowery  incense  and  odorous 

Balm  from  forest  deeps?     "The  groves  were  God's  first 

Temples,"  and  mayhap  He  walketh  still 

In  their  cool  shadowed  aisles,  while  Nature  with 

Her  thousand  tongues  pours  forth  His  praise, 

And  fills  the  wide,  infinite  deeps  of  skies, 

And  with  His  unseen  presence  thrills  the 

Telephonic  air  till  every  breath  in 

Those  far,  azure  fields  is  message-laden 

For  all  winged  things.  Who  knows,  and  who  shall  answer' 


180 


Charlotte  11  route. 


CHARLOTTE  BRONTE.     (1885.) 

Within  the  firmament  of  thought  there  are 
Fixed  stars  and  central  suns  to  which  the  world 
Turns  with  a  sense  of  reverent  wonder. 
They  light  our  skies:  upon  our  dim  horizons 
Shed  their  beams. 

Thought  has  its  spheres,  its  upper 
And  its  lower  heavens — low,  dim,  dark  and 
Starless  reaches,  where,  heavy-winged  and  blind, 
\Ve  flutter  aimless  till  we  fall  to  earth. 
Tis  but  the  few  who  soar  to  the  far  heights, 
But  few  whose  words  ring  through  the  ages  vast; 
Few  whose  thoughts,  like  the  perpetual  Sun, 
Flood  the  world  with  living  light  and  beauty, 
.Making  our  lives,  which  else  were  barren,  rich 
With  their  grand  creations.     How  they  let  down 
The  bars  for  us  that  shut  us  out  from  the 
Infinite  realms  of  glowing  fancy!     How 
Sweep  with  magic  touch  of  genius  the  film 
From  our  far  duller  visions!     How  on  their 
Kagle  pinions  bear  us  up  to  their  own 
Grand  creations,  where  world  on  world  of 
Shining,  starlit  thought  glows  in  their  mental 
Heavens!     Below  it  lies   Karth's  sordidness; 
Its  groveling  cares,  its  pettiness  and 
Frivolous  folly,  which  sweep  on,  casting 
Their  shadows  on  the  race,  and  darkening 
Universal  being.     How  narrow  life 
To  those  whose  life  is  but  self  within  self 
Revolving.     What  would  the  race  achieve  with 
Only  such  to  make  its  history?     Man 
Was  not  meant  to  grovel.     She  whose  name  we 
Sing  today  was  not  of  higher  race  or 
Better  clay  than  we.     She  was  but  noble 
Type  of  gracious,  cultured  Womanhood — of 
The  large  woman  whose  expanded  soul  proves 
That  great  thought  is  sexless,  that  to  such 
Mental  stature  as  the  man  attains  there 
Is  no  bar  to  her  attainment.     Unto 
The  highest  heights  she,  too,  may  reach,  and  win 
The  luster  of  a  fadeless  name. 

With  what  cunning  hand  did  she  lay  bare  the 

Inner  realms  of  thought !     She  took  the  soul  of 

Man  and  hold  it  up  to  view.     The  quivering,  tremulous 

Throbbing  of  the  heart;   its  vague  longings;  its 

Unspoken  hopes;  its  faltering  purposes; 

Its  infinite  desires,  and  its  great  world 

Of  unfathomable  tenderness  she 

Made  tangible,  and  clothed  them  all  in  the 

Warm  garments  fashioned  by  her  pen  until 

Each  man  and  woman,  and  each  little  child 

Lives  with  us  daily,  and  our  hearts  hold  them 

She  was  a  grand  creator,  and  she  lives 
Today  in  what  she  wrought.     In  every 
Throb  of  passionate  power,  in  every 
Impulse  of  the  human  heart,  we  find  the 
Pictures  she  has  painted,  and  we  hear  her  voice. 


EASTERN  WOODS.     (1885.) 

Ye  grand  old  woods  that  stand  upon  the  hills 

Through  all  the  Summer's  splendor,  with  your  emerald 
crown, 

Where  gentle  breezes  loiter,  and  the  running  rills 
Pour  silver-throated  music  to  the  meadows  down; 

Where  golden  sunlight  flecks  the  velvet  moss, 
And  cooling  shadows  lie  beside  the  brooks, 

And  bird  calls  unto  bird  the  boughs  across, 
Through  the  dim  cloisters  of  the  forest  nooks: 

I  see  the  splendor  of  your  forest  spires, 

When   frost  has  tipped  each*  emerald  leaf  with  flame. 
And  Summer,  like  some  pagan  queen,  expires 

On  golden  harvest  sheaves  which  crowd  the  plain. 

THE  OLDEN  THANKSGIVING.     (1883.) 

Here  in  this  semi-tropic  calm 

My  thoughts  go  back  to  other  days, 

The  orange  bloom  and  stately  palm, 

The  golden  light  of  cloudless  days, 

The  bird-song  and  the  perfumed  air, 

December  with  her  golden  hair, 

As  rosy-lipped  as  when  the  Year  was  young, 

With  breath  as  sweet,  with  smile  as  brignt, 

As  shone  upon  the  New  Year's  face 

In  its  first  radiant  morning's  light; 

The  song  of  birds  with  shining  wings, 

The  bright-winged,  happy  butterfly, 

The  perfumed  lily's  fragrant  breath, 

Which  fills  the  South-Wind  floating  by, 

The  golden  Dawns,  the  Sunset's  calm, 

The  mellow  Xoons,  so  full  of  light, 

They  hold  me  not  as  beckons  now 

The  frozen  Winter-Land  of  snow. 

My  fancy  sees  a  land  of  white, 

Of  mountains  clad  with  solemn  pines, 

Of  leafless  forests  where  the  winds 

Wail  through  the  naked  boughs  at  night; 

Where  shriek  in  fury  winter  storms, 

Where  muffled  forms  make  haste  to  go 

Out  from  the  maddened  whirl  of  snow 

Into  the  happy  hearthstone's  light. 

I  see  the  open  fireplace  shine, 

Piled  with  its  forest  logs  aflame. 

I  see  the  faces  bright  with  smiles 

Of  those  who  many  weary  miles. 

To  music  of  the  jangling  bells, 

O'er  frozen  ways,  through  drifts  of  snow, 

Through  forest  wastes,  where  wolfish  yells 

Curdled  the  warm  blood's  happy  flow. 

Have  come  to  keep  Thanksgiving  Day 

Beneath  the  dear  old  home-roof  tree; 

That  olden  time  when  we  were  young — 

A  Nation  just  begun  to  be; 

When  Puritanic  maidens  smiled, 

With  faces  meek  and  saintly  fair, 


181 


Unclassified  Poems. 


And  went,  with  thankful  lips  and  hearts, 

With  lovers  to  the  place  ot  prayer. 

The  Nation's  heart  was  lifted  then 

Beside  that  wintry  eastern  sea, 

As  one  man's  for  the  blessings  poured 

Upon  this  Nation's  infancy. 

The  old  church  spires,  like  finger-tips, 

Pointed  to  heaven — the  shining  blue 

Was  but  the  curtain  hiding  Him— 

His  glory  almost  shining  through — 

Whose  name  upon  their  trusting  lips 

Hung  with  the  glad  thanksgiving  hymn. 

And  when  the  hour  of  praise  was  done, 

The  blessings  of  the  year  were  told 

Around  the  board;  both  sire  and  son — 

The  grandsire  and  the  happy  child, 

The  maiden  and  the  matron  old — 

Sat  down  where  Plenty's  feast  was  piled. 

Around  those  boards  what  happy  pulses  beat! 

Content  was  there  to  bless  the  bounteous  feast, 

And  God  in  all  things,  and  in  this  was  peace. 

IN  THE  COUNTRY. 
(Iron  Sulphur  Springs,  1885.) 

Across  the  bending  emerald  seas, 

Just  tipped  with  crimsoned-purple  glow — 
The  green  alfalfa  meadow  seas— 

I  watch  the  shadows  come  and  go; 
I  watch  the  golden  sunlight  fall, 

I  watch  the  wandering  breezes  kiss, 
I  hear  the  merry  crickets  call, 

And  see  the  lazy  cattle  whisk 
The  myriad  flies  that  tease  them  so, 

While  the  lush  grasses  round  their  knees 
Toss  in  a  billowy,  soundless  flow; 

And  hear  the  hum  of  careless  bees; 
I  see  the  lovely  pepper  boughs, 

Those  bright-faced  hermits  of  the  plain, 
Lift  to  the  smiling  skies  their  brows 

Which  never  pale  for  lack  of  rain. 
I  hear  the  linnet  sing  at  dawn 

Where  the  tall  grasses  bend  and  sway, 
As  if  the  Spirit  of  the  Morn 

Was  melting  into  song  away. 
And  far  beyond  lies  still  and  brown 

The  wide-extended,  sunny  plain, 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains  crown 

Above  skies  filled  with  golden  rain; 
And  'cross  the  bending  emerald  seas, 

Just  tipped  with  crimsoned-purple  glow — 
The  green  alfalfa  meadow  seas — 

I  watch  the  shadows  come  and  go. 

THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS.     (1883.) 

O  what  a  path  we  travel !  what  a  way  we  tread ! 
We  walk  through  vanished  ages  with  their  light 
Undimmed,  shining  as  clear  as  if  their  suns 
Had  never  set;  as  if  the  dark  eclipse 


Of  dead  old  years  o'ershadowed  not  their  wide, 

Vast  realm.     We  look  into  the  face  today 

Of  ancient  kings,  whose  ashes  the  wild 

Winds  have  made  their  playthings,  whose  bones,  mayhap, 

Have  been  refashioned  into  green  and  shining 

Grasses,  or  into  giant  trees  that  mock 

The  centuries  with  their  undecaying  strength, 

But  to  our  sight  they  live  again.     With 

Plume  and  helmet,  and  with  shining  spear  they 

Come,  the  fragrance  of  the  White  Rose  and  the 

Red  stealing  upon  our  startled  senses. 

Out  from  their  graves  at  History's  magic 

Touch  spring  buried  generations.     We  see 

The  race  from  which  our  old  forefathers  sprang 

In  all  their  wild  barbaric  strength — might  making 

Right,  brother  with  brother  battling.     AVe 

See  the  fair  white  sails  of  England's  fleets, 

Which  long  ago  went  down  in  stormy  seas, 

Or  with  the  old  and  yellow  pennons  and  worm- 

Eaten  hulks  dropped  to  decay,  set  sail  again, 

As  in  the  centuries  agone  they  sailed,  their 

Decks  trodden  by  warriors  in  whose  untamed 

Breasts  burned  steadily  the  all-consuming 
Love  of  conquest.     The  blue  seas  flash  beneath 
The  summer  sun;  the  white  foam  leaps  around 
Their  vessels'  prows  as  down  they  bear  upon 
The  sunny  coasts  of  proud  old  Normandy. 

Bend  low,  fair  skies,  above  those  heaps  of  slain! 
Warm  with  thy  sun  those  pale  dead  forms  to  life! 
Let  soft  winds  fan  them  on  the  bloody  plain — 
The  harvest-heaps  Death  garnered  in  the  strife 
Of  Agincourt.     But  never  the  warm  sun 
Kissing  'mid  leafy  shadows  those  white  brows, 
Nor  the  soft  airs  lifting  with  unseen  touch 
The  silken  locks  that  rest  above  them  like 
A  crown,  shall  wake  to  life  those  princely  sons 
Of  struggling  France,  swept  to  their  death  by 
Cruel  hands  of  English  plunderers.     Through 
All  the  years  of  larger  life  and  broader 
Human  creeds,  of  that  humanity  which 
Makes  the  whole  world  kin,  the  battlefields  of 
Poictiers  and  Agincourt  stand  out 
The  monumental  plains  of  Wrong,  the 
Pyramids  of  that  rude  age  of  conquest 
Which  makes  the  history  of  the  younger 
Life  of  races  and  of  nations. 

The  lovely  plains  of  France  are  green  and  fair, 
The  Earth  is  gemmed  with  blossoms,  and  her  hills 
Rise  vine-clad  toward  the  deep-blue  shining  air, 
Whose  hush  the  laugh  of  running  streamlets  fills. 

In  the  wide  market-place  at  Rouen,  see! 

An  angry  crowd  has  gathered — men  are  there 

With  cruel-visaged  faces,  with  brows  that  be 

Knit  into  angry  scowls;  with  seamed  lines  of  care, 

And  discontent,  and  pride  that  will  not  brook 

Control,  and  savage  passions  furrowing  deep 

Their  cheeks;  with  fierce  eagle  eyes  that  look 

As  pity  could  not  touch,  nor  sorrow  make  them  weep. 


182 


In   the  Old  Earth's  Heart. 


And  others  stand  with  strong  arms  folded  tight 
Upon  their  manly  breasts,  with  pale  lips  firmly  set, 
Their  noble  faces  of  an  ashen  white, 
Their  pitying  eyes  with  tearful  moisture  wet. 

Down  through  that  sullen  silence  conies  at  length 
Like  some  bright  presence  that  we  see  in  dreams, 
A  girl  with  noble  face,  where  shines  undying  strength 
Of  highest  purpose,  transfiguring  with  its  beams 
Each  perfect  feature  in  its  holy  light. 
Erect  she  walks  and  firm;  her  long  rich  hair 
Falls  like  a  mantle  o'er  her  shoulders  white— 
Her  rounded  cheeks  are  wonderfully  fair. 

Chained  to  the  stake,  she  like  a  statue  stands, 
With  eyes  uplifted,  and  with  calm,  white  face; 
Like  spotless  lilies  lie  her  folded  hands 
Upon  her  breast— their  quiet  resting-place. 

The  sun  sinks  slowly  in  the  cloudless  West, 
The  market-place  is  still;  even  the 
Quiet  summer  breeze  forgets  to  whisper. 
And  amid  the  myriad  leafy  trees 
Not  one  leaf  stirs  the  solemn  hush  of  silence. 
The  angry  crowd  has  vanished,  but  from  the 
Deserted  market-place  rises  one  faint 
White  line  of  smoke,  like  a  thin,  ghostly 
Finger  pointing  to  the  skies;  and  here  the 
Ashes  lie  of  that  fair  Maid  of  Orleans;— 
Let  them  rest. 

Looking  from  the  fair  heights  on  which  we  stand  today. 

Back  to  that  twilight  time  of  nations, 

The  infancy  of  Progress,  glad  may  we 

Be  that  in  the  light  of  this  late  century 

The  bright,  clear  noontide  of  the  human  race 

Our  lot  is  cast,  and  from  the  lessons  of 

That  gloomy,  struggling  Past  may  we  learn 

Wisdom  that  will  make  us  true  to  noblest 

Deeds  and  grandest  purposes. 


IN  THE  OLD  EARTH'S  HEART. 
(A  Fancy.) 


(1882.) 


Have  ye  not  heard  the  story  of  the  land 

That  lies  warm  in  the  old  Earth's  heart?     A  fair, 

Sweet  Summerland— a  land  cradled  in  the 

World's  lap,  with  portal  at  the  Pole,  through  whose 

Wide  gates,  o'er  path  of  shining  waters,  lit 

By  the  brightness  of  electric  suns,  vast 

Fleets  might  sail,  and  in  that  inner  world,  fanned 

By  soft  Summer  airs,  drift  past  wide  continents 

And  glorious  isles  that  star  the  under 

Seas?     Out  from  that  mighty  portal,  wide  as 

The  great  world's  surface,  round  the  far  end  of 

Its  vast  axis  laid,  streams  the  electric 

Flood,  till  all  the  outer  skies,  lit  by  the 

Auroral  lights,  blaze  forth  a  beacon  for 

The  world,  bright  as  a  living  sun. 


Let  Fancy  spread  her  sails;  her  ship  will  pass 

Swift  through  the  ice-seas,  sailing  northward  still 

To  that  far  region  of  the  Midnight  Sun, 

Where  the  still  waters  of  the  under  sea 

Lave  with  soft  ripples  all  the  silver  sands 

Of  those  strange  shores,  and  laugh  in  ecstacy, 

Forever  tossing  soft,  white  arms  of  spray 

Round  the  green  mosses  that,  like  emeralds  set 

Within  a  rocky  rim,  gleam  on  the  borders  of  the 

Sapphire  seas  that  catch  the  Midnight's  gold  and  violet, 

And  crimson  glory  of  the  sinking  Sun, 

Which,  resting  on  the  threshold  of  the  coming  Day, 

For  one  brief  moment  shuts  Ins  eyelids  down; 

Then  lo!  the  Morning  with  its  shining  crown 

Of  light  upon  the  golden  hilltops  stands, 

And  with  its  smiles  sets  dimples  in  the  seas. 

And  here  our  eyes  shall  see  fair  cities  rise, 

And  people  strange  walk  on  those  wondrous  shores, 

And  palm  trees  wave  beneath  the  sunlit  skies; 

And  maidens  with  fair  faces  like  the  snow, 

Just  touched  with  kisses  of  the  sunset  light, 

And  locks  like  woven  sunbeams  falling  low, 

In  shining  ripples  to  their  dainty  feet, 

Upon  the  pebbly  beach  walk  to  and  fro 

With  young  A  polios,  kingly  to  the  sight. 

And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  song  of  birds, 

That  rest  like  golden  blossoms  'mid  the  trees, 

Or  flash  like  rubies  o'er  the  shining  blue 

Of  the  still  lakes  that  sleep  erewhile  the  breeze 

Forgets  to  blow.     The  gardens  of  Hesperides, 

With  all  the  golden  fruitage  of  their  boughs, 

Were  not  as  fair  as  these  beneath  the  skies 

Of  the  Aurora-land  about  the  Pole. 

Here  clear,  warm  rivers  shine,  and  as  they  roll 

With  murmurous  music  to  the  ocean  flood, 

Their  banks  are  fragrant  as  the  spicy  isles. 

And  'mid  the  groves  of  banyan  and  of  date, 

Rise  palace  walls,  and  shining  fountains  play, 

And  sculptured  marble  stands,  as  if  the  gods 

Had  hid  among  the  trees;  and  royal  arches  rise, 

And  temples  with  their  spires  of  gold 

And  shining  crosses.     There  is  the  sound  of 

Bells  all  silver-tongued,  and  melody  of 

Music,  and  happy  childhood's  faces  like 

White  lilies  'mid  the  grasses,  and  dimpled 

Hands,  like  pure,  soft  snowflakes,  touch  the  flowers. 

The  hills  rise  to  grand  heights  as  whispering 

To  the  stars.     The  Moon  peers  through  the 

Leafy  boughs  of  the  tall  trees, 

As  if  it  were  cradled  in  the  emerald 

Of  their  whispering  leaves.     Like  shimmering 

Silver  from  the  lowly  rocks  drops  many 

A  laughing  waterfall,  and  brooks  sing 

An  echo  of  the  wild  bird's  song. 

The  sunlit  seas  are  white  with  many  a 

Sail   freighted  with  rare  spices  and  untold 

Odorous  sweets,  rich  silks  and  jeweled  treasures. 

Here  is  Edona's  lovely  vale,  and  bright 


183 


Unclassified  Poems. 


Viva's  fountain  flo\vs,  leaping  in  laughter 
To  the  bending  skies.     The  outer  earth, 
Smitten  and  scarred  by  wrong,  finds  here  no 
Counterpart.     It  is  the  Beulah  Land,  the 
Fair  Utopia  of  our  dreams,  all  shadowless 
Lying  upon  the  border  of  the  realms 
Of  blessed   Peace. 

CHILD-FAITH— THE  COMET.     (1882.) 

From  out  my  open  window,  looking  to 
The  East,  I  leaned.     The  dusky  splendor  of 
The  starlit  skies  brooded  above  the 
Silence.     All  the  winds  were  hushed;  not  e'en  a 
Whisper  breathed  they  to  the  leaves  jeweled  with 
Dewy  diamonds  that  hung  pulseless  in 
The  arms  of  Night.     Silence  seemed  dropping  from 
The  heavens,  which  leaned  upon  the  mountain 
Tops,  as  if  between  them  lay  secrets  too 
Vast  for  speech.     Far  overhead,  threading  the 
Pathway  of  the  countless  stars,  its  flaming 
Length  thrust  upward  through  immeasurable 
Fields   of   wide,   world-lighted   space,   flamed   the   bright 
Comet. 

A  golden-headed  darling  woke 
From  her  sweet,  dreamless  slumber,  her  rosy 
Lids  unclosing  like  the  flower  which  opes' 
Its  petals  to  the  Sun,  and  with  clasped  hands 
Upward  looked.     One  little  hush  of  silence, 
Then  her  soul  leaped  up,  shouting  its  gladness 
In  her  happy  speech :  "  Look !     Look  and  see 
God's  arm  among  the  stars !" 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE.     (1878.) 

The  sky  was  wrapped  in  veil  of  soft,  white  mist, 

As  if  its  Summer  bridal  hour  had  come, 

And  one  swift  gleam  of  gold  and  amethyst, 

A  wandering  sunbeam  into  glory  kissed 

By  the  near  sunset  splendor,  shone 

A  crown  upon  the  fog-veiled  mountain  peak. 

The  West  rained  sunset  kisses  on  the  Sea, 

Till  all  the  dimples  on  its  pure,  fair  cheek 

Showed  lovelier  than  sea-shell  tints;  in  ecstacy 

Laughed  the  bright  waves,  and  rushed  along  their  way, 

And  threw  white  arms  of  foam,  and  flashing  spray 

Upon  the  waiting  sands,  that,  silver-white, 

Waited  their  coming  through  the  day  and  night. 

The  emerald  fields  of  grain  had  lost  their  green, 

And  ripened  sheaves  showed  only  glint  of  gold, 

And  there,  high-piled  by  Labor's  hand,  they  lay 

Like  the  vast,  silent  pyramids  of  old. 

They  looked  as  if  some  secret  in  their  breast, 

Beyond  where  prying  sunbeams  dared  to  stray, 

Might  lurk  sure-hidden  and  find  happy  rest. 

Perhaps  they  held  the  whisper  of  the  way 

That  Nature  nursed  the  tiny  seed  which,  dropped 

In  her  warm  breast,  found  life  and  strength  to  grow 


And  send  out  roots  and  tender  shoots,  nor  stopped 

Its  circling  saps,  like  life-blood  flowing  through 

The  stalk  and  tender  leaf,  till  ripened  grain 

Showed  golden  billows  on  the  wind-swept  plain. 

The  white  mists  rolled  above  me,  and  the  blue 

Made  shining  rifts  only  within  the  west, 

And  the  Sun  lingered  there,  and  smiling  threw 

Around  his  form  a  gold  and  crimson  vest. 

And  lying  there,  with  arms  above  my  head, 

And  eyes  far-reaching  to  the  deep  of  skies, 

The  warm,  sweet  Earth  beneath  me  for  iny  bed, 

That  grain-wrought  pyramid  with  all  its  rich  supplies 

So  near  beside  me  that  my  hand  could  reach 

And  touch  its  yellow  blades;  with  mountains  near, 

With  emerald  seas  of  orchards  at  my  feet, 

The  echoing  roar  of  waves  upon  the  beach 

Coming  in  softened  whispers  to  my  ear, 

And  June's  soft,  tender  kisses  on  my  face, 

As  if  she  were  my  lover,  and  her  place 

Beside  me  there  to  whisper  hope  and  peace 

And  bid  life's  futile  vexing  worries  cease, 

I  lay  in  calm  content  so  full  and  sweet, 

While  perfumed  odors  wrapped  my  head  and  feet. 

UNTOUCHED  BY  TIME.     (1878.) 
O  the  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  young! 
Today  is  born  as  fresh  and  fail- 
As  the  first  days  in  Eden  were, 
When  Time  had  just  begun. 
And  the  golden  light  in  the  East  at  dawn 
Comes  stealing  down  through  sky  as  blue, 
O'er  fields  as  bright  with  diamond  dew, 
As  Earth's  first  perfect  morning  knew; 
And  as  sweet  as  the  scents  of  Paradise, 

Which  wings  of  angels  loved  to  reach, 
As  if  the  flowers  to  them  were  each 
An  altar,  with  a  soul  to  teach 

Some  fresh,  new  truth  Heaven  had  revealed, 
But  from  their  angel  sight  concealed — 
As  sweet  as  these  the  flowers  today, 
As  sacred  what  their  soul  would  say. 

And  the  bright-winged  birds  in  our  sunny  skies 
Dip  their  slender  beaks  in  song 
And  float  through  the  shining  air  along. 
With  notes  as  glad  as  Paradise. 

And  these  mountain  heights  with  their  gates  of  pearl 
Fog-wrought,  with  marge  of  golden  mist, 
And  set  with  ruby  and  amethyst — 
Had  Eden  glory  such  as  this? 

And  did  ever  her  crystal  rivers  show — 
Their  silver  ripples  by  lilies  kissed— 
Soft  and  warm  in  the  sunset  glow, 
A  single  sparkle  that  we  have  missed? 

O  the  world  is  old  and  the  world  is  young ! 
Today  is  born  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  the  first  days  of  Eden  were, 
When  Time  had  just  begun. 


184 


Sweet  Bird-Son^-  Stilled. 


SWEET   BIRD-SONG   STILLED.     (1885.) 

It  was  the  springtime  in  the  distant  East, 

And  the  cold  winds  of  Winter  all  had  ceased 

To  blow,  and  in  the  forest  stirred 

The  roots  of  wild-flowers,  and  the  happy  bird; 

The  brook  had  flung  its  icy  fetters  far, 

And  through  clear  skies  down  looked  the  Evening  Star. 

The  wild  rose  had  put  on  its  leaves  of  green, 

The  spider  spun  his  web  of  silver  sheen ; 

The  cricket  chirped,  the  smiling  daisy's  lid 

Was  lifted— among  the  grasses  hid 

The  droning  beetle,  and  happy  in  the  sun 

Buzzed  swarming  flies,  and  one  by  one, 

All  golden-winged,  with  spots  of  velvet  brown, 

Gay  butterflies  among  the  flowers  dropped  down ; 

And  in  the  silver  of  the  forest  brook, 

Where  swept  its  waters  through  each  shadowed  nook, 

In  cool  deep  pools,  just  flecked  with  sunny  light, 

The  speckled  trout  swam  o'er  the  pebbles  white. 

The  tall  reeds  dropped  their  shadows  in  the  stream 

O'er  which  they  leaned  as  if  in  happy  dream; 

The  tender  leaves  upon  the  forest  trees 

Swung  to  and  fro,  stirred  by  the  gentle  breeze. 

Two  happy  birds  had  built  their  summer  nest 

Within  a  maple  tree.     Its  leafy  crest 

O'ershadowed  it,  and  kept  it  dry  and  warm 

Through  all  the  rain  of  every  summer  storm. 

Four  little  birds  were  in  that  summer  home, 
Just  waiting  there  until  their  wings  were  grown— 
Waiting  to  fly  through  all  the  golden  air, 
To  sing  their  songs  and  make  the  woods  more  fair 
With  their  sweet  notes;  and  day  by  day 
With  joyous  twittering  in  their  nests  they  lay, 
While  the  soft  feathers  grew  upon  their  wing, 
And  Summer  came  and  took  the  place  of  Spring. 

One  lovely  morning  when  the  world  was  fair, 

And  not  a  cloud  filled  all  the  Summer  air, 

When  thousand  wild-flowers  their  sweet  odors  gave 

To  fill  the  woods,  and  on  the  silver  wave 

Of  the  glad  brook,  which  babbled  on  its  way, 

Such  shining  specks  of  golden  sunshine  lay; 

When  all  the  world  was  full  of  happy  notes, 

Poured  in  sweet  music  from  the  feathered  throats 

Of  all  the  birds  within  the  tree-tops  high, 

These  nestling  birds  first  sought  to  reach  the  sky. 

They  stretched  their  wings,  then  up  and  up  they  flew, 

Finding  a  path  the  pleasant  sunshine  through. 

They  sped  unto  a  distant  tree-top  high, 

And  here  each  birdling  stopped  to  rest  its  wing, 

And  full  of  gladness  all  together  sing. 

So  sweet  their  song  the  air  itself  grew  still 

And  listened,  and  the  running  rill 

Made  haste  more  softly,  rippling  on  its  way, 

As  if  it  would,  to  hear  their  music,  stay. 

The  happy  bees  hushed  too  their  busy  hum, 

The  meek-eyed  cows  unto  the  brookside  come 

Chewing  their  cud,  their  ears  a-listening  turned; 

And  e'en  the  hawk  his  wider  pathway  spurned, 


And  in  the  forest  swiftly  lighted  down 
Upon  the  nearest  tree-top's  spreading  crown. 
The  tall  tree-trunks  long  colonnade 
Of  slender  slanting  shadows  made, 
Like  some  grand  aisle  in  temple  dim. 
And  down  it  poured  the  young  birds'  hymn. 
They  sang  as  if  their  breath  was  song, 
And  through  the  meadows  swept  along, 
With  breath  of  flowers  and  hum  of  bee 
The  sweetness  of  their  melody. 

Oh,  what  a  wondrous  world  is  this, 
With  fragrance  and  with  sunshine  kissed ! 
So  fair  with  fields  and  trees  and  flowers, 
So  warm  with  lovely  summer  hours; 
So  grand  with  mountains  tall  and  high; 
So  vast  with  blue  and  bending  sky; 
So  bright  with  sunlight  and  with  dew; 
So  glad  with  sounds  all  strange  and  new; 
So  full  of  life  and  happy  things, 
Of  butterflies  with  golden  wings, 
And  flies  from  out  whose  gauzy  sheen 
The  colors  of  the  rainbow  gleam. 
Oh,  we  could  sing  our  lives  away, 
The  happy  bird-song  seemed  to  say. 

Just  then  adown  the  meadow  lane. 
With  guns  upon  their  shoulders,  came 
Three  thoughtless  boys  on  sport  intent, 
To  the  bird-song  no  thought  they  lent ; 
Yet  still  they  heard  the  song,  and  sped, 
With  hurried  feet  and  swifter  tread, 
Along  the  border  of  the  brook, 
To  where  its  babbling  waters  took 
To  wider  shallows,  and  its  sands 
Gleam  brighter  as  its  breast  expands, 
And  on  the  pebbles  round  and  white 
Its  laughing  silver  ripples  light 
With  touch  so  soft  that  scarce  a  sound 
Is  stirred  within  the  waters  round. 

A  little  bird  with  sudden  sweep 

Drops  to  the  brook  and  dips  its  beak 

Within  its  crystal  cool  and  bright, 

Then  turned  with  swift  and  noiseless  flight, 

And  soon  a  speck  within  the  blue, 

Its  little  form  is  lost  to  view. 

And  like  a  saint,  so  pure  and  fair, 

The  fragrant  lily  bendeth  there. 

The  dandelion's  yellow  crown 

Gleams  in  the  woods  and  meadows  round, 

And  all  things  seemed  so  glad  and  gay 

Upon  that  perfect  summer  day. 

And  still  their  happy  songs  they  sing— 

Those  little  birds— the  meadows  ring 

With  their  glad  notes,  and  echoes  stir 

In  every  forest  corridor. 

And  now  across  the  golden  sands 

Of  the  brook's  shallows,  with  their  hands 

Holding  their  guns,  towards  the  tree 

The  boys  move  swift  and  noiselessly. 


185 


Unclassified  Poems. 


A  gladder  song,  full-throated,  clear, 
Breaks  from  the  birds  as  they  draw  near. 
But  with  the  sweetest  note  there  came 
A  sudden  sound,  a  flash  of  flame. 
O  thoughtless  boys !  your  work  is  done, 
And  from  the  tree-top,  one  by  one, 
Those  glorious  song  birds,  shot  by  you, 
Their  tuneful  throats  all  riddled  through, 
Drop  down,  their  song  forever  stilled 
Whose  glad  notes  all  the  morning  filled. 

A  quiet  on  the  forest  falls, 

A  hush  is  on  the  stream, 
While  red  their  little  blood-stained  breasts 

Lie  still  the  flowers  between. 

No  more  their  happy  songs  shall  float 

And  fill  the  sunny  air 
Above  the  silver  shining  brook, 

And  summer  meadows  fair. 


WHAT  THE  BROOK  SAYS.     (1886.) 

Warm  shone  the  Sun,  and  the  grasses  stood 
Tall  and  green  like  slender  spires, 
And  the  wandering  breezes  touched  the  lyres 

Of  the  thousand  leaves  of  the  Summer  wood. 

Ah !  what  musical  murmurs  went 
Down  through  the  dim  old  forest  aisles, 
Where  the  fragrant  violet  and  bluebell  smiles, 

And  the  running  brook  its  gladness  lent. 

What  shadows  fell  on  its  waters  clear, 
Shadows  of  flowers  that  love  to  lean 
And  watch  the  ripples  the  rocks  between, 

And  shadows  of  reeds,  you  could  almost  hear 

Growing,  with  slender  roots  thrust  down 
Where  they  could  drink  the  waters  sweet, 
Flowing  like  silver  round  their  feet, 

And  shadows  of  floating  thistle-down, 

Borne  along  on  the  breeze's  wing, 

Floating  away  in  the  sunny  light, 

And  drifting  slowly  out  of  sight, 
Up  to  the  boughs  where  the  robins  sing. 

Ah !  what  wonderful  sounds  we  hear, 
Down  in  the  beautiful  forest  ways, 
In  the  heart  of  the  lovely  Summer  days. 

There  is  the  robin  singing  clear; 

There  are  the  cheerful  roundelays 

Of  the  cricket,  down  in  the  mosses  hid, 
And  the  song*  of  the  merry  katydid, 

And  all  that  the  rippling  Water  says. 

I  think  that  a  story  all  its  own 

It  tells  to  the  mosses  and  flowers  that  keep 
Watch  where  its  crystal  waters  sleep — 

Tells  in  the  softest  undertone. 


Why  do  I  think  so?    Why,  one  day 

I  lay  half  asleep  where  the  mosses  grow, 
And  something  I  heard  that  sounded  so, 

Something  the  running  Brook  did  say. 

At  first  I  thought  it  was  nothing  more 
Than  the  water  rippling  round  a  stone, 
On  which  the  loveliest  moss  had  grown, 

And  where  its  spray  like  a  rainbow  shone. 

Then,  surely  I  heard  the  Water  say, 
As  it  floated  like  silver  where  it  grew, 
"  I  think  there's  nothing  so  fair  as  you, 

And  O  how  I  love  to  come  this  way ! 

"You  lie  like  an  emerald  on  my  breast, 

You  glad  my  heart  with  your  cheerful  face, 
You  brighten  with  beauty  all  the  place, 

You  build  a  throne  where  the  birds  may  rest— 

"Rest,  and  dip  their  pretty  beaks 

Right  in  the  heart  of  my  waters  bright, 
And  gather  strength  for  their  further  flight, 

To  the  sunny  crests  of  the  mountain  peaks." 

Then  the  Water  kissed  the  Mosses'  cheek, 

And  ran  along  on  its  shining  way, 

Touching  the  grasses  with  its  spray, 
And  bathed  the  drooping  flowers'  feet. 

Then  where  the  fair  green  meadows  spread, 

And  all  the  shining  hills  stood  high 

Beneath  the  brightness  of  the  sky 
The  happy  Brook  soon  found  a  bed, 

And  grew  into  a  lovely  Lake, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  hills, 

Where  ran  to  meet  it  all  the  rills, 
As  glad  their  rest  with  it  to  take. 

And  here  the  white  pond-lilies  grew 

Fair  enough  for  any  fairy, 

Floating  light  and  sweet  and  airy, 
And  the  sunshine  kissed  them  through. 

There  the  little  Brook  does  rest, 

And  the  birds  above  it  sing, 

And  the  flowers  about  it  spring, 
And  the  lilies  kiss  its  breast. 

"THE  TESTIMONY  OF  THE  ROCKS."     (1887.) 
(On  The  Times  Building.) 

Ages  ago,  when  Chaos  ruled  the  Earth, 
And  mighty  Saurians  thronged  the  troubled  seas, 
As  round  the  formless  continents  their  waters  rolled, 
Though  mad  convulsions  crept  the  shuddering  deeps 
Along,  and  wild  upheavals  of  new  lands 
Arose — islands  and  mountains,  born  from  out 
The  seas — still  from  its  granite  base  the  rock- 
Ribbed  world  swayed  not.     Eons  on  eons  wrought 
In  Nature's  tortured  realms  to  harden  and 
To  mold  the  granite  rock.     Seas  slept  upon 


186 


In  the  Fields  of  Ohio. 


It  to  weigh  it  clown,  and  mighty  mountains 
Pressed  their  ponderous  bulk,  and  the  vast  and  huge- 
Limbed  continents  stamped  on  its  bed,  ere  man 
Awoke  in  Eden.     God  works  through  ages, 
And  he  builds  for  time.     The  centuries  are 
But  minutes  in  His  sight.     Nature's  thousand 
Forces  are  but  tools  of  His  omnipotence. 

So  all  the  ages  on  the  granite  wrought ; 

Feldspar  and  mica  and  the  needed  quartz 

Were  welded  and  made  fair  and  strong,  foundation 

Meet  for  Earth's  rock-piled  strata,  and  fit,  no 

Less,  for  human  builder,  defying  storms 

And  earthquake's  crumbling  forces,  time-enduring, 

And,  when  hewn  and  shaped  in  massive  blocks, 

High  piled  by  skillful  builders'  hands,  and 

O'er-roofed,  as  monumental  as  old  Time's 

Long  centuries. 

So  meet  it  was  that  we, 
Building  for  no  Today  alone,  but  for 
The  unexampled  years  of  a  grand  future, 
That  shall  be  rich  in  all  that  maketh  great 
And  opulent,  should  take  the  granite  which 
The  ages  wrought  for  us  to  build  our  "Times" 
Citadel,  where  we  may  fight  for  Truth,  do 
Mighty  battles  'gainst  the  Wrong,  weigh  well  in 
Scales  of  Justice  questions  which  do  vex  and 
Tease,  and  keep  aglow,  with  a  warm  light,  the 
Paths  Progression  treads,  with  beacon  beams  from 
All  our  granite  towers. 


IN  THE  FIELDS  OF  OHIO.     (1887.) 

Over  the  green  summer  hills  of  Ohio  the  morning  looked 
down, 

And  on  hinges  of  gold  swung  open  the  gates  of  the  East, 
Gilding  with  glory  the  forest,  the  river  and  town, 

As  if  from  the  world  all  things  but  beauty  had  ceased. 

The  flow  of  the  river  was  full  of  melody's  tone, 

'Twas  afloat    in  the    glory  of    sunrise,  pure    amber  its 
waves, 

From  East  to  West  the  birds  sang,  filling  that  morn 
With  the  floods  of  their  song,  the  still  air's  infinite  caves. 

Just  the    lightest    of   breezes    were   winged,  bearing    the 

sweets 

Of  the  numberless  flowers,  and  tossing  the  grass 
Into  billowy  emerald  waves,  that  rippled  and  shone 

As  Glory  were  trailing  her  garments  through  the  fields 
of  the  Morn  as  she  passed. 

The  leaves  of  the  trees  were  like  wings  just  stirring  to 

bless 

With  the  breath  of  the  winds  the  birth  of  the  Day, 
And   they   held   all   the  hills   in   the  soft   clasp   of  their 

shadows, 

That  twinkled  in  coolness  or  danced  like  a  child  in  its 
play. 


The  bees  were  glad  in  the  grasses,  the  butterflies  floated 

along, 
Like  a  bit  of  the  sunshine  the  humming-birds  hung  on 

the  edge 
Of  the  roses,  like  wing6d  jewels  of  fluttering  light. 

And  like  a  fair  diamond,  sparkling  and  clear,  the  water 
flashed  'mid  the  sedge. 

The  dandelions  lifted  their  yellow  heads,  and  the  daisies 
Swung  'mid  the  grasses,  and  the  young  clover  was  sweet 

with  its  bloom, 
And  there,  too,  the  dimple-cheeked  children,  with  lips  like 

the  roses, 

Dream  in  the  light  of  the  Morning  and  wait   tor  the 
golden  Noon. 

But   the   Day   creepeth   upward,  its   garment  of  gold  on 

the  hills 
Is  selvedged  by  Noon;  open-faced  the  Sunflower  looks 

to  the  Sun 

Floating  calm  in  its  ocean  of  sky,  no  cloud  in  its  path, 
And  the  winds  breathing  soft  as  the  breath  of  a  babe 
newly  come. 

Was  ever  Nature  more  fair,  with  her  redolent  breath  full 

of  peace? 
With  her  sky  raining  glory,  and  Earth  full  of  fragrance 

and  calm? 
With  the  Sun  lying  proud  on  the  breast  of  the  Sky  like  a 

king, 

Throwing  lances  of  light  to  the  Earth  by  the  might  of 
his  arm? 

THE  FIRST  SABBATH  IN  EDEN.     (1888.) 

The  world  was  young,  and  on  the  ether's  breast 

It  lay,  a  thing  of  light  and  beauty.     Fair 

Was  the  sun-orbed  sky;  no  shadow  fell  of 

Cloud  upon  it;  no  stain  on  all  its  blue  deep, 

So  infinite  stretching  in  sunny  brightness, 

As  it  might  touch  the  throne  of  Him  who  is 

Center  and  life  of  all  things.     Eden  lay  fair, 

The  dew  of  Morn  upon  her  flowers,  which 

Shed  the  incense  of  their  sweet  perfume  on 

All  the  air.     Winged  with  caressing  lightness 

Stirred  the  breeze,  lilting  the  leaf  of  rose  and 

Stately  lily,  as  if  to  breathe  sweet  sense 

Of  coolness  on  them.     The  orange  bloom  scented 

The  air  with  fragrance,  while  goldenly  the 

Orange  swung  perfect  in  ripeness.     All  fruits 

That  to  the  sight  were  pleasant,  or  were  good 

For  food,  brightened  the  garden  adown  whose 

Shady  ways  walked  Adam,  and  leaning  on 

His  arm,  Eve,  mother  of  us  all,  with  face 

Of  heavenly  purity.     Her  eyes,  large,  blue 

And  softly  shining,  were  unto  Adam 

Like  to  guiding  stars;  her  hair  hung  like  spun  gold 

Of  morning  sunbeams,  covering  her  form 

And  reaching  to  her  lilied  feet ;  her  lips 

Arched  like  the  young  Moon's  crescent,  and  her  cheek 

Like  the  petal  of  the  peach-tree's  flower 

187 


Unclassified  Poems. 


In  its  pure,  pinky  whiteness.     No  Sabbath 
Bell  disturbed  Eden's  stillness.     No  stir  of  hurried 
Feet  broke  holy  silence.     Nature  was 
Priestless  there.     The  rivers  sang  an  anthem 
With  their  rain  of  many  waters.     The  small 
Brooks  joined  the  chorus  with  an  undertone 
Of  song.     The  birds  on  all  the  tree-tops  from 
Their  feathered  throats  poured  melody;  the  bee 
Gave  its  small  voice,  and  all  the  forest  leaves 
Took  tongues  of  worship.     Beneath  the  palm-tree's 
Shade  the  tiger  lay,  and  the  lion  strong 
Nestled  beside  him.     The  elephant  gave 
Touch  caressing  to  the  bear,  beside  which 
Lay  the  lamb,  with  head  pillowed  upon  his 
Paw.     The  gay  birds  of  paradise  brightened 
The  trees,  their  plumage  trailing  like  a 
Banner  from  the  boughs.    Down  through  the  long  tree- 
Columned  paths  walked  our  first  parents  with  their 
Reverent  feet,  feeling  God's  presence  near. 
At  length  they  hear  a  voice,  and  quick  they  kneel 
In  worship.     Over  her  eyes  live  spreads  her 
Taper  fingers,  and  bends  her  head,  while  her 
Pure  lips,  as  if  anointed,  murmur,  "Our 
Father!"     God's  unseen  Hand  has  touched  her,  and 
Her  faith  has  quickened.     Adam,  with  his  broad 
Brow  uplifted,  and  with  eyes  -filled  with  his 
Heart's  devotion,  with  speech  which  was  like  music, 
Murmurs,  "Father,  we  thank  Thee  for  this  day, 
And  for  Thy  holy  presence.     Teach  us  to 
Worship  Thee,  and  make  us  grateful  for  Thy 
Gifts  bestowed.     We  see  Thy  presence  in  the 
Curtained  sky  spread  o'er  us,  and  these  majestic 
Trees  are  thoughts  of  Thine  visible  to  us. 
These  flowers  are  the  sweet-tongued  speech  of  Thy 
Beneficence,  and  this  garden,  made  holy 
By  Thy  presence,  is  man's  most  fitting  temple 
For  Thy  praise." 
Then  Adam  knelt  in  silence, 

And  o'er  all  things  God's  glory  rolled,  and  through 
The  trees  of  Eden,  and  o'er  its  silver 
Tides  of  flowing  waters  our  parents  heard 
The  Sabbath  song  of  angels  sounding;  and 
Then  Earth  broke  into  singing.     Each  leaf  was 
Like  a  lute  wakened  to  melody.     Each 
Flower  had  fragrant  breath  of  seraph,  and 
The  waters  joined  with  all  the  morning  stars 
That  sang  together.     Thus  the  first  Sabbath 
Of  the  world  dawned  in  Earth's  sinless  Eden. 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD   AND  THE  MORNS   OF  JUNE. 

Oh,  clear  was  the  sky,  and  it  bent  as  blue 

Over  the  Earth  as  if  it  knew 

Every  flower  that  grew  below, 

And  every  breeze  that  did  softly  blow — 

As  it  had  an  ear  for  every  tune 

That  filled  the  air  in  the  morns  of  June. 


The  little  brook  with  its  waters  bright 
Mirrored  the  sky  and  the  sunny  light, 
And  the  grasses  bent  like  a  fairy's  wand 
To  reach  the  brook  where  it  touched  the  land; 
And  the  birds  splashed  softly  within  its  tide, 
As  it  sang  to  the  banks  on  either  side. 
Birds  and  water,  how  sweet  their  tune, 
In  the  morning  hour  of  a  day  in  June. 

O  bird  of  song  that  came  to  me ! 

Perched  on  the  top  of  the  tallest  tree, 

Came  to  sing  in  strain  divine 

Songs  that  were  sweeter  than  any  rhyme; 

Always  there  on  the  tree-top  high, 

So  soon  as  the  morn  was  in  the  sky. 

0  bird  of  song,  with  voice  in  tune, 

In  your  breast  was  the  singing  soul  of  June. 

Mocking-bird,  what  of  the  bobolink— 

You  have  heard  his  voice,  do  you  never  shrink 

From  the  music  his  wonderful  throat  has  poured, 

Lest  the  note  you  miss?     From  the  music  stored 

In  the  feathered  throat  of  the  robin,  too, 

Singing  the  song  he  has  taught  to  you? 

Bird  of  song,  your  heart  in  tune 

With  the  music  and  sweetness  of  days  in  June. 

Often  and  often  my  fancy  strays 
Back  to  the  summers  of  other  days  — 
Back  to  a  spot  set  round  with  trees, 
With  beds  of  flowers,  where  honey-bees 
Came  when  the  dew  lay  soft  and  fair, 
Like  a  veil  of  silver  everywhere, 
On  rose  and  lily  and  passion-flower — 
Lay  like  a  sparkling  diamond  shower. 

1  breathe  the  air  that  is  wafted  in, 
Pure  and  cool  on  the  sea-breeze  wing; 
I  note  the  ripple  of  tiny  stream, 

The  lily's  white  and  the  red-rose  gleam; 

Again  I  drink  of  the  silver  tide 

That  sparkles  and  babbles  my  path  beside; 

I  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  cedar-tree 

And  dream  of  the  Junes  which  used  to  be. 

And  still  I  hear,  as  I  heard  of  yore, 

The  beautiful  mocking-bird  sing  once  more 

From  the  top  of  the  tallest  tree  that  grew, 

As  though  he  knew  it  was  nearer  to 

Heaven  than  the  trees  that  were  not  so  high — 

Nearer  the  angels  in  the  sky. 

Hour  by  hour  that  mocking-bird 
Day  after  day  my  ear  has  heard; 
And  he  wore  a  vest  of  golden  hue, 
While  the  songs  of  every  bird  he  knew; 
Over  and  over  he  sang  to  me 
From  his  skyward  perch  in  the  cedar-tree. 
Never  was  morn  of  a  flower-lipped  June 
When  his  beautiful  voice  was  out  of  tune. 


Morning  Out  of 


A  SECRET. 

Out  from  the  deeps  of  the  air  {rather  the  clouds, 

Their  whistling  battalions  sweeping  the  sky 

Of  Winter.     Silently,  yet  steadily 

On  they  come,  their  marshal— the  Wind— blowing 

His  trumpet,  sweeping  the  seas  with  his  breath. 

The  leaves  of  the  forest  catch  the  sound  of 

His  coming,  and  his  couriers  run  through 

Their  leaves  with  a  tremulous  step,  and  all 

A-shiver  they  stir  at  the  touch,  as  if 

Each  had  a  heart  in  its  breast.     Grand  army 

Of  Clouds!  ye  cover  the  field  of  the  sky 

And  then  let  your  batteries  loose  on  the 

World.     Ye  have  hidden  redoubts,  ye  have  paths 

That  we  cannot  discern,  and  forces  that 

Take  us  with  swiftest  surprise,  sometimes  in 

This  Land  of  the  Sun — sometimes  on  the  verge 

Of  the  Summer.     Where  gather  ye  then  your 

Soldiers  gay,  your  army  of  raindrops 

Which  sometimes  descend  just  to  tickle  the 

Earth  with  their  lances,  then  withdraw,  with  bright 

Banners  of  rainbows,  to  hide  from  the  Sun? 

Where  away  do  ye  wander  as  Summer 

Draws  near?     ()  luminous  Mountains!  with  heads 

Sky-pillowed  and  bold,  are  ye  so  far-visioned 

Ye  see  what  keepeth  the  calm  of  our  Summer, 

The  sheen  of  the  skies  from  the  storm?     Hear  ye 

Who  sayeth  "Depart"  to  Winter's  storm-clouded 

Battalions,  so  that  o'er  the  blue  eye  of 

Summer  there  never  is  seen  the  eyelid 

Of  cloud  fringed  with  tear-drops  of  rain?     Ah,  yes, 

I  think  ye  know  somewhat  of  the  secret. 

Winds,  Sea  and  Mountains,  ye  are  lovers 

Together  of  this  Summerland  fair,  and. 

Her  eye  that  is  shining  with  laughter,  her 

Breath  that  is  sweet  with  the  flowers,  and  her 

Garments  with  orange-scent  laden,  ye  love 

As  a  mother  doth  love  her  babe  in  its 

Cradle,  and  well  you  could  tell  the  secret 

Of  her  sun-shining  Summer  and  calm. 


A  MORNING  OUT  OF  DOORS. 

Little  bumble-bee,  little  bumble-bee, 

Where  are  you  going,  will  you  tell  me,  pray? 

I'm  after  honey  in  the  heart  of  the  flowers, 
And  so  I  am  flying,  flying  away. 

Pretty  butterfly,  golden-winged  as  the  Dawn, 
Floating  like  a  smile  through  the  sunny  air, 

Can't  you  stop  to  play  with  me,  little  butterfly, 
Why  need  you  now  be  flying  any  where  ? 

I  must  wing  my  way  to  the  opening  rose, 
And  I  must  flutter  in  the  sunshine,  too. 

For  happy-hearted  children  love  to  see  my  wings  astir 
When  the  Day  is  bright  with  the  Sun  and  dew. 


O  little  cricket !  sitting  in  the  shadow 

Of  the  swaying  grasses  tall  and  green, 
Get  out  your  bow  and  fiddle  and  play  a  pretty  tune, 

And  sing  your  song  where  the  bending  roses  lean. 

No,  I  only  sing  in  the  Evening's  pleasant  shade, 

For  I'm  busy  all  the  day  a-thinking 
What  music  I  shall  sing  when  the  twilight  shadows  fall, 

And  the  Sun  within  the  West  is  sinking. 

O  spider!  your  silver  web  a-spinning, 

Just  stop  a  minute  from  your  work,  I  pray; 

No,  child,  I  cannot,  for  a  fly  is  buzzing  near  me, 

And  my  silver  threads  must  bind  it  before  it  flies  away. 

0  squirrel !  sitting  on  the  bending  bough, 
Your  tail  of  silver  shining  'mid  its  leaves, 

I've  a  pocketful  of  nuts  and  acorns  lovely, 
Just  come  and  sit  with  me,  and  help  me  crack  them, 
please. 

Darling  child,  you  must  not  tempt  me  ever, 
For  if  I  let  you  gather  nuts  for  me, 

1  fear  that  all  too  soon  I  should  very  lazy  grow, 

Then,  when  the  Winter  comes,  what  would  become  of  me? 

O  bird  upon  the  tree-tops !  swinging  sweet, 

With  your  tiny  breast  so  full  of  song, 
Drop  down  within  my  garden  where  flowers  blossom  fair, 

And  amid  the  roses  make  the  echoes  dance  along. 

No,  my  darling,  for  on  the  tree-top  high 

I  must  sing  unto  the  sunshine  overhead. 
On  the  glorious  tree-top  near  the  bending  sky, 

Just  so  soon  as  ever  Night's  shadows  dark  have  fled. 

O  little  brook !  with  your  sparking  water, 

Just  stop  a  moment  where  your  banks  are  green. 

Where  the  blessed  shadows  fall  so  cool  and  softly. 
And  the  lily-bells  hang  the  swaying  hedge  between. 

No,  my  child,  for  I  can  never  loiter, 

For  afar  the  Sea  is  calling  to  me, 
And  its  billows'  spray  would  melt  along  the  shore 

If  the  brooks  and  rivers  should  linger  lazily. 

O  little  toad !  pray  what  have  you  to  do, 

As  you  sit  there  a-blinking  in  the  Sun? 
Oh,  I'm  watching  for  the  careless  bugs  that  come  my  way. 

And  so  they  shall  not  harm  things,  I  eat  them  every  one. 

Well,  now,  if  everything  is  busy 

With  work  it  ought  to  do,  I  think  that  I, 
Although  a  little  child,  have  some  duty  waiting  for  me. 

And  to  find  out  what  it  is  I  will  surely  try. 

"THE  GOLDEN  ELEPHANT." 

[The  following  extracts  are  taken  from  an  unfinished  poem 
by  Mrs.  Otis,  entitled  "The  Golden  Elephant— A  Romance 
of  the  Middle  Ages."] 

.     .     .     'Side  many  a  pool, 
Sleeping  in  shadows  sweet  and  cool, 
Were  statues  that  my  hand  had  wrought 
Of  bronze  and  copper.     Living  thought 


189 


Unclassified  Poems. 


Seemed  stirring  in  them;  you  would  swear, 

While  looking  at  them,  that  the  air 

Poured  whispers  in  their  ears  which  sent 

Swift  gladness  through  them,  and  which  lent 

A  subtle  sense  of  vision  to 

Their  lidded  eyes,  and,  looking,  you 

Would  wait  for  motion,  wait  for  speech 

To  break  the  silence  which  on  each 

Bronzed  lip  was  set,  and  you  would  deem 

A  god  was  there,  perhaps  in  dream 

Of  dumbness  standing,  while  there  shone 

A  halo  round  him,  and  the  glade, 

Filled  with  bright  birds  whose  presence  made 

The  air  in  liquid  music  melt, 

Seemed  but  a  temple  which  you  felt 

Were  fitting  for  him.     .     .     . 


Some  days  thereafter,  in  the  glow 
Of  the  fair  Morning's  splendor,  slow 
Upon  a  milk-white  courser  there, 
Nearing  the  purple  mountains  where 
Uplifted  like  a  firmament 
They  rose  above  the  workman's  tent, 
All  clothed  in  softest  samite,  came 
Fair  Edith  tentward.     Alighting,  slow 
She  with  untrammeled  grace  did  go 
To  seek  the  workman.     .     .     . 

He  felt  the  beauty  of  her  eyes 
Veiled  with  their  lids,  and  he  did  rise 
As  with  white  hand  she  gently  drew 
Sidewards  the  curtain  and  looked  through 
Unto  his  presence,  and  did  come 
Slow-gliding,  as  within  the  dome 
Of  Heaven  moveth  a  white  cloud. 

Her  face 

Glowed  with  its  blushes  for  a  space, 
Then  melted  into  whiteness,  through 
Which,  so  silken  soft,  showed  the  blue 
Veins  like  sapphire  threads.     Her  fringed  lids, 
'Neath  which  the  unshed  tears  were  hid, 
Like  golden  arches  trembling  lay 
Above  her  eyes,  as  luminous 
As  starry  midnight — even  thus 
They  seemed  to  him,  as  if  untold 
Fathomless  depths  they  could  unfold; 
As  if  somewhere  a  moon  might  sleep 
And  burn  within  them,  and  yet  keep 
Horizons  hid  beyond  explore, 
And  passionate  seas  of  feeling  o'er 
Which  no  wind  of  speech  might  blow. 


.     .     When  the  Noon 
Leaned  breathless  o'er  the  blue  lagoon, 
And  the  white  lily's  lifted  face 
Xo  lightest  breeze  stirred  from  its  place, 
They  sat  in  silence  for  a  space. 
And  with  his  many  thoughts  entranced, 


He  mused  with  knitted  brows,  and  glanced 
Not  any  whither.     Moveless  down 
His  heavy-lidded  eyes  were  cast, 
Looking  as  if  before  them  passed 
Some  visioned  shape.     She  sat  as  drowned 
In  the  warm  sunshine  flooding  round, 
Nor  dared  to  speak,  as  if  a  sound 
Would  fright  his  vision,  which  she  deemed 
Meant  her  deliverance.     .     .     . 

....     The  still  Noon 
Slept  without  his  tent  as  in  a  swoon, 
The  Sun  seemed  lying  on  the  wave, 
And  all  the  cool,  sweet  shadows  gave 
No  sign  of  motion  as  they  bent 
'Neath  where  the  silent  grasses  leant 
The  water  o'er.     He  paused  and  sat 
As  looking  through  vast  distance  at 
Something  invisible.     At  length, 
Like  a  great  Hercules,  his  strength 
Showed  in  his  knotted  muscles,  when 
He  started  suddenly,  and  then 
Lifted  cyclopean  hammer,  and 
Rent  with  one  stroke  an  iron  band 
About  an  old  chest  standing  there, 
The  swift  blow  striking  the  still  air 
Like  sound  of  thunder.     .     .     . 

.     Her  timid  gaze  was  lifted;  there 
A  world  of  tenderness.     Despair 
Fled  in  its  light,  and  vast  spheres 
Of  shining  hope  shone  on  him. 


SANTA  CLAUS  LAND.     (1893.) 

Oh,  gray  the  sea  and  white  the  shore 
That  lie  where  sullen  breakers  roar, 
On  which  the  Polar  Star  looks  down, 
And  Ursa  Major  casts  his  frown. 

Two  great  ships  tossed  upon  the  wave; 
The  men  upon  their  decks  were  brave, 
Far  wanderers  from  a  southern  land 
Unto  this  frozen  Arctic  strand. 

But  breaks  the  ice,  and  blue  aisles  lie 
To  northward,  where  they  cast  their  eye; 
Aisles  of  clear  water  open  wide, 
Touching  the  far  horizon's  side. 

The  white  sails  of  their  ship  they  spread, 
By  favoring  winds  their  canvas  fed, 
Along  these  watery  ways  they  go 
To  Polar  fields  of  ice  and  snow. 

But  no!    As  on  and  on  they  sail 

To  farther  north,  the  dying  gale 

Gives  place  to  soft-winged  zephyrs,  bound 

With  spicy  odors,  such  as  round 


190 


Great  flower-beds  linger.    Scent  of  rose 
And  fragrant  lily  they  disclose, 
And  breath  of  orange,  and  the  flowers 
That  breathe  through  spicy  tropic  bowers. 

And  soon  the  open  sea  grows  wide, 
No  longer  giant  icebergs  glide, 
Slow-sailing  on  the  deep  of  seas, 
Gray,  frozen,  mount-like  mysteries. 

But  wide  and  fair  the  waters  lie 
Beneath  the  cloudless  Polar  sky, 
And  green  the  shores  that  sleep  afar 
Beneath  the  light  of  Polar  Star. 

And  strange  birds  flit  within  the  blue, 
Bright  birds  of  every  size  and  hue; 
Some  red  as  is  the  Summer  rose, 
And  some  as  white  as  Winter  snows. 

And  some  are  purple-breasted  seen, 
With  crest  of  gold  and  wings  of  green; 
And  some  of  glowing  amber  show 
Their  wide,  warm  wings,  slow-sailing,  low 

Against  the  warm  West's  glowing  rim. 
And  others,  lark-like  rise,  till  dim 
In  the  blue  heavens  they  cease  from  sight, 
Lost  in  the  flooding  sunshine's  light. 

Then  down  wide  waterways  there  float 
Rivers  of  song — the  bulbul's  note, 
Sweet  as  a  dream  of  joy  is  heard— 
The  silver  silence  all  is  stirred. 

Then,  northward,  with  its  shores  of  green, 
A  mighty  continent  is  seen, 
Stretching  afar,  a  land  unknown, 
Filling  this  farther  Polar  zone. 

And  here,  O  wonder  strange  and  new! 
Opens  the  wide  earth  to  their  view, 
Another  world  within  this  sphere, 
And  other  light  is  shining  clear. 

For  strange  electric  flashes  play, 
Chasing  the  darkness  all  away, 
And  through  this  under  hemisphere 
Sweep  all  earth's  waters  flowing  clear. 

No  harsh  winds  in  this  under  world 
Have  ever  angry  billows  curled 
Round  its  fair  lands  and  shining  isles, 
Where  only  placid  Summer  smiles. 

The  Borealis  gleams  and  glows, 
Brighter  than  suns  the  light  it  shows, 
And  silver  rivers  pour  their  tide, 
While  shell-like  boats  upon  them  ride. 

Soft-lipped  the  laughter  that  they  hear, 
And  sweet  the  speech  that  rings  so  clear 
From  rosy  lips;  like  stars  which  shine 
The  maiden's  eyes — like  rosy  wine, 


Red  are  their  lips;  as  dewy  sweet 
As  opening  flowers  of  twin  buds,  meet 
For  Summer  fragrance,  while  their  hair 
Seems  spun  of  sunbeams,  'tis  so  fair. 

And  on  these  new-found  shores  did  cast 
The  ships  their  anchors,  lying  fast 
Beyond  the  warm  and  fragrant  beach, 
Stretching  as  far  as  eye  could  reach. 

And  here  the  peepul  trees  grew  fair, 
And  lotus  bloom  was  everywhere 
O'er  the  bright  pools,  and  palsa  trees 
Waved  fragrant  blossoms  in  the  breeze. 

And  sun-birds  spread  their  wings  of  gold, 
Flashing  with  light,  and  gay  birds  told 
Their  nesting  songs  in  love  notes  sweet, 
Where  boughs  of  palm  and  cedar  meet. 

And  such  large  cities  stretched  away 
To  the  far  rim  of  northern  day; 
Houses  of  onyx,  stately,  grand, 
With  tall  carved  column  which  did  stand 

'Mid  fountains  where  bright  rainbows  played, 
And  happy  youths  and  maidens  strayed 
Througli  fragrant  gardens  banked  with  flowers, 
And  robins  twittered  through  the  hours 

From  morn  to  sunset.     Into  dark 
Melted  yet  never  the  last  spark 
Of  glowing  light;  the  Aurora  shone 
Like  a  new  sun  within  this  zone — 

Making  the  night  more  fair  than  day, 
Fuller  of  splendor  than  the  ray 
Of  midday  suns,  till  all  the  air 
Was  white  with  shining  everywhere. 

Here  peacocks  strutted  in  their  pride; 
White  herons  by  the  water  side 
Stood  on  pink  legs;  bright  parrots  swung 
Chattering  the  palm-tree's  boughs  among. 

And,  O  the  little  trixies  who 
Danced  all  the  flowery  meadows  through, 
Playing  on  lutes,  or  waving  wands 
Of  purest  gold  above  the  sands. 

Then  oft  upon  the  calm  sea's  tide 
Their  little  boats  went  sailing  wide, 
Seeking  for  mermaid's  hidden  caves 
Which  lay  beneath  the  silver  waves. 

To  see  the  ships  at  anchor  there 

Came  crowds  of  people,  young  and  fair, 

Dressed  in  gay  garments,  silver-like 

As  Morning's  mist,  which  shimmers  white 

When  through  and  through  the  sunbeams  sift 
Their  purest  rays,  ere  it  is  lift 
Like  a  white  curtain,  and  the  blue 
And  stainless  skies  shine  forth  anew. 


191 


Unclassified  Poems. 


Some  rode  on  yellow  horses,  made 
All  bright  with  golden  trappings  laid 
On  them;  music  from  bells  of  gold, 
Sweet-tongued,  yet  tiny,  from  each  fold 

Of  their  rich  garments  sounded  low 
As  a  brook's  voice  in  silver  flow; 
And  bells  from  coral  anklets  hung 
And  tinkled  softly  as  they  swung. 

A  hundred  boats  of  pearl  they  reach 
Lying  in  splendor  near  the  beach, 
And  filling  them,  quickly  glide 
From  silken  mantles  round  them  spread. 

With  wonder  dumb  the  ship's  crew  gazed 
As  o'er  the  shining  waterways 
The  hundred  boats  of  pearl  drew  near 
From  this  strange,  unknown  hemisphere. 

But  they  were  gay  and  happy  folk, 
And  every  tongue  on  earth  they  spoke; 
"Come  with  us,"  they  had  cried,  "and  see 
The  land  we  live  in,  and  the  tree 

Whose  ripe  fruits  make  us  young  and  fair, 
And  whose  rare  fragrance  fills  our  air 
With  breath  of  youth  that  never  dies." 
The  captain  for  his  crew  replies 
With  many  thanks ;  the  boats  are  manned 
And  soon  they're  sailing  toward  the  land. 

But  who  is  this  upon  the  beach 
With  hands  outstretched  to  welcome  each? 
They  look  and  smile,  and  quick  they  spring 
To  reach  the  land  where  he  is  king. 

Tis  Santa  Claus,  with  face  as  fail- 
As  Summer  flowers,  his  shining  hair 
We  dream  so  white  has  turned  to  gold, 
And  not  a  thread  is  white  or  old. 

He  shows  them  treasures,  endless,  vast, 
Enough  for  all  while  Time  shall  last; 
Great  marble  palaces  stand  there 
Filled  full  of  gifts,  and  everywhere 

The  busy  little  nixies  run 
To  pack  the  toys  when  the}7  are  done; 
And  busy  fairies  flit  through  rooms 
Filled  with  rich  silks  and  rare  perfumes. 

O  golden  days  with  Santa  Claus! 
In  that  bright  land  where  never  pause 
Auroral  lights;  where  calm  seas  roll 
Round  the  fair  isles  beneath  the  Pole. 
O  sad  their  hearts  and  sad  the  day 
When  from  those  shores  they  sailed  away! 

ON  MY  VERANDA.     (1892.) 

Out  on  the  day  with  sunshine  filled  I  look, 

The  air  all  golden,  throbbing  in  its  warmth, 

Each  breeze  winged  with  soft  light ;  upon  the  flowers 

The  bees  hovering  so  gaily,  buzzing 

So  merrily,  of  all  this  fair,  bright  day 

Seemed  but  a  part.    The  butterflies,  amber 


And  brown-winged  with  flecks  of  red,  like  little 

Stars  dotting  them,  are  like  jewels  on  the 

Brelfet  of  Noon.     The  roses  pour  their  fragrance 

For  the  air  to  drink;  the  honeysuckle 

Leans  on  its  trellis  and  distills  odors 

Better  than  wine;  geranium  hedges 

Laugh  with  rich  color,  while  they  from  sight 

Cover  brown  fences  that  have  grown  old  with  years, 

With  mossy  flecks  upon  their  sides,  and  holes 

Worm-eaten.     But  the  lush  young  leaves,  blossoms 

And  climbing  stalks  hide  all  of  this  and  hedge 

The  old  fence  round  with  youth  and  bright  color, 

And  beauty,  filling  the  eye  with  gladness. 

How  blue  the  sky  as  I  peer  upward  through 
The  green  vine  leaves  at  it,  like  a  sapphire 
Shining  far  above  them,  wondrous  in  clearness. 
The  emerald  grasses  at  my  feet  seem 
Whispering  together,  and  I  catch  their 
Soft  breath  as  they  stir,  and  note  their  lightest 
Motion.     An  undertone  of  harmony 
Sweeps  'mid  their  slender  blades.     The  shadows  touch 
Them  lightly  as  they  fall  from  orange  trees 
And  palms  and  graceful  peppers.     The  little 
Ants  run  to  and  fro  'mid  sand-built  cities; 
Geranium's  scarlet  bloom  invites  the 
Humming-bird,  while  overhead,  in  the  cool 
Chambers  of  the  walnut's  boughs,  the  breast  of 
Some  glad  linnet  is  full  of  song.     Rippling 
Down  the  glad  air  it  comes,  and  pours  itself 
Into  my  ear.     Afar  the  mountains  rise, 
Those  grand  and  solemn  heights  kindred  with  sun 
And  stars.     Veiled  in  purple  glory  stand  they 
At  this  hour,  as  in  a  dream,  silent,  vast, 
Majestic  bulwarks  of  the  world.     Do  they 
Not  know  the  secrets  of  the  air,  and  tongued 
With  waterfalls,  did  we  but  know  their  language, 
Might  they  not  reveal  the  story  of  the 
Skies?     Could  they  not  talk  of  proud  Orion's 
Martial  head,  and  with  their  flinty  fingers 
Let  loose  the  Ursa  Major,  and  smooth  the 
Golden  tresses  of  sad  Andromeda, 
Or  tell  us  of  far-off  Mars,  so  ruddy- 
Faced,  so  proud  a  warrior? 

I  saw  one  night 

The  moon  rising  above  the  mountains,  and 
She  poured  a  silver  river  on  their  crest, 
Or  what  looked  like  liquid  silver.       It  was 
A  narrow  stream,  like  a  shining  ribbon 
On  their  shoulders,  but  how  it  glorified 
Them!     It  was  as  if  heaven  had  let  down 
Its  threshold,  and  one  step  from  thence  would  take 
Us  to  the  skies.     O  mountains,  sun  and  stars ! 
And  ever-blooming  flowers,  and  little 
Blades  of  grass,  and  singing  birds  amid  the 
Leafy  boughs,  and  bright-winged  butterflies, 
And  buzzing  bees,  and  ever-shining  skies, 
I  love  ye  all!     Ye  are  God's  finger-prints, 
And  sitting  here  and  looking  at  ye  all, 
I  worship  Him. 


To  Our  Little  One. 


TO  OUR  LITTLE  ONE. 

[At  "The  Bivouac,"  on  the  m<xrning  of  January  8,  1901,  a  baby 

girl  was  born.] 

At  early  dawn,  soft  floating  on  the  blue, 
I  saw  a  white  cloud  drifting  low  and  fair; 
I  wonder,  Baby,  could  it  have  been  you— 
Your  little,  sinless  soul  astir, 
Seeking  some  cunning  shape  to  call  your  own — 
Bright  eyes  and  rosy  fingers,  pink-tipped  toes, 
Sweet  face  and  tiny  arms,  and  shining  hair 
And  perfect  limbs?     Ah,  Baby  sweet!     Daughter 
Of  this  bright  clime,  born  in  the  lap 
Of  Nature's  royal  beauty,  where  God's  crown 
Is  set  on  all  things,  may  your  life 
Be  like  the  glory  of  the  world  about  you, 
Fair  ever  as  the  beauty  of  these  vernal  fields, 
Sweet  as  the  fragrance  that  the  roses  yield, 
Pure  as  the  perfect  lily's  bloom, 
Which  fills  the  air  with  rich  perfume. 
Baby,  we  bid  you  welcome! 

OUR  BABY. 

(Fort  Moore  Place,  Feb.  12,  1903.) 
Into  your  perfect  little  frame 
Out  of  the  Somewhere  a  new  soul  came; 

How  did  it  enter  thy  body  fair, 

With  its  soft,  blue  eyes  and  silken  hair? 
Out  of  the  deeps  of  the  sun-filled  blue 
Did  it  come  stealing  softly  through, 

Till  it  found  the  dimpled  hands  and  feet, 

The  baby  face  and  the  eyes  so  sweet, 
That  never  had  looked  on  the  earth  before 
The  soul-light  touched  them  on  this  far  shore? 

Baby,  thy  soul  by  our  Father's  hands 
Was  tenderly   fashioned.     He  understands, 

He  guided  it  here,  made  ready  for  thee 

The  baby  form  that  today  we  see 
Where  thy  soul  abides.     May  His  tender  care 
Be  round  about  thee  everywhere; 

Still  may  He  guide  the  little  feet 

Through  the  paths  of  Time  and  ever  sweet 
Make  the  roses  bloom  and  the  lilies  spring 
And  th'  birds  of  Hope  round  thy  pathway  sing. 

Give  thee  a  noble  manhood,  grand 

With  high  endeavor,  make  thee  stand 

Where  the  Right  is  strong  and  the  Soul  is  high, 
And  base,  skulking  Wrong  shall  pass  thee  by. 

Welcome,  sweet  baby !  let  Gladness  grow 

Flowers  for  thy  feet  as  on  ye  go. 
Let  Duty  pave  all  the  paths  ye  tread, 
And  by  Love's  own  hand  may  your  feet  be  led, 

And  when  life  is  over  and  sets  its  sun, 

May  you  hear  our  Father's  blest,  "Well  done." 

THE  FIRST  NIGHT  IN  EDEN.     (1904.) 

What  did  the  first  man  think  when  evening  came, 
And  daylight  faded  in  the  West  away, 
When  all  the  shining  stars  within  the  sky 


Looked  from  the  blue  so  still  and  silently? 

Oh,  did  he  dream  that  angels'  eyes  were  these, 

Watching  the  earth  as  it  did  lie  so  fair 

In  its  sweet  slumber,  the  whispering  breeze 

Crooning  its  lullaby  among  the  trees? 

And  when  the  Moon  climbed  up  the  silent  East, 

Unlike  the  Sun  in  splendor,  yet  as  fair, 

Shedding  her  silver  glory  round  him  there, 

Making  for  his  wide-open  eyes  a  feast 

Of  wondrous  loveliness — all  silvered  o'er 

With  soft  moonlight  was  Eden's  garden  floor, 

Paved  with   green  mosses  and  countless  blossoms    fair, 

Pouring  their  perfumed  incense  on  the  air. 

Sometimes  among  the  trees  a  night-bird  stirred. 

And  a  low  note  from  feathered  throat  was  heard — 

Did  he  then  dream  that  nearer  unto  him, 

In  the  sweet  twilight  and  the  hush  of  night, 

Drew  the  All-Father,  though  unto  his  sight 

Invisible?     So  sweet,  so  free  from  care. 

So  still,  with  beauty  round  him  ev'rywhere, 

With  the  high  stars  o'envatching  him,  the  blue 

Of  Heaven  drawn  like  a  curtain  o'er  his  head, 

The  breath  of  love  within  the  silent  air, 

The  whole  wide  earth  a  moonbeam-laden  bed, 

From  which  Night's  gloom  had  all  so  quickly  fled. 

Heaven  must  have  seemed  but  just  above  the  blue, 

The  stars  its  sands  of  glory  shining  through. 


THE  LITTLE  CHILDREN.     (1902.) 

The  dew  of  innocence  is  on  their  brows, 

And  on  their  cheeks  the  bloom  of  purity; 

Content  doth  linger  in  their  happy  smile, 

And  hope  is  in  the  atmosphere  they  breathe. 

No  shadow  dark  within  life's  skies  they  see, 

No  wrong  they  know  to  fright  their  happy  dream 

Their  trust  is  like  a  flower,  unfolding  fair, 

Their  faith  is  like  the  sun  without  eclipse. 

They  know  not  Doubt,  that  brother  of  Despair, 

Nor  Guile,  which  is  a  poison  for  the  lips, 

They  know  not  Envy,  that   foul  imp  of  Wrong; 

Like  flowers  they  blossom  on  the  slopes  of  Time, 

To  glad  our  lives  and  make  the  world  more  fair, 

And  make  a  holv  Eden  in  our  hearts. 


EMBLEMS.     (1902.) 

Our  lofty  mountain  heights  they  grandly  stand, 

Shining  in  whiteness,  as  if  th'  unseen   Hand 

Of  the  great  God  had  touched  them,  brushing  thence 

The  stain  of  Earth  and  Time,  leaving  but  sense 

Of  purity.     Like  angel's  garments  white, 

Transfigured  in  the  glory  of  the  light, 

The  snows  upon  their  lofty  summits  lie, 

And  like  a  crown  rests  there  the  sapphire  sky, 

So  near  to  heaven,  they  breathe  the  upper  air, 

No  sound  of  strife  or  sin  could  reach  them  there; 

The  whispers  of  the  Night  must  reach  their  ears, 

And  all  the  music  of  the  starry  spheres. 


193 


Unclassified  Poems. 


The  Sun  walks  there  in  all  his  glory  dressed, 
Time  dreameth  not  of  change  as  he  doth  rest, 
Halting  to  view  the  splendor  at  his  feet, 
Where  Summer  smiles  in  her  secure  retreat, 
'Mid  orange  groves  and  never-failing  flowers, 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  long  year's  passing  hours. 


O  happy  land  beneath  these  mounts  of  snow ! 
Where  falls  on  us  the  Summer's  softest  glow, 
God's  love  enfolds  us  here,  and  as  we  raise 
Our  eyes  to  them  we  sing  His  power  and  praise. 
Emblems  of  power,  O  lofty  mounts !  are  ye, 
Emblems  of  love  the  fruitful  valleys  be. 


194 


of  Song, 


•Mocking-bird,  mocking -bitd,  singing  in  t^e  tree!' 


LOVE.     (1878.) 

Within  my  heart  a  little  bird  hath  built  its  nest, 

With  folded  wing  and  songful  breast 

It  sitteth  there  the  whole  day  long, 

Nor  findeth  rest  but  in  its  song, 

And  all  the  music  of  its  every  strain 

Begins  and  ends  with  this  same  sweet  refrain — 

The  only  sound  on  my  heart's  full  sea— 

"I  love,  love,  love  thee,  so  remember  me!" 

Joyful  Day.     (1879.) 

0  day  so  bright,  O  day  so  free! 

1  kneel  in  my  love  to  worship  thee ! 
The  clouds  like  rosy  petals  lie 

On  the  tender  breast  of  the  sunset  sky, 
And  the  breath  of  the  winds  is  soft  to  me, 
And  I  feel  the  kiss  of  the  restless  sea ! 
And  life  is  glad— it  is  joy  to  be! 
O  day  of  beauty!     I  worship  thee. 

Earth's  Fair  Morning.     (1888.) 

When   Earth's   fair  mornings  come, 

Each  stealing  one  by  one 

Up  to  the  dark  steeps  of  night, 

Their  pathway  by  the  stars— 

Soft-shining  through  the  bars 

Of  twinkling,  golden  light — 

Made  free  from  gloom, 

How  up  the  eastern  sky 

Dawn  creeps,  and  there  makes  room 

In  the  wide  East,  where  sleeping  breezes  sigh, 

Where   shadowy  curtains    fall, 

For  the  new  Day's  birth. 

How  Earth  her  censer  swings, 

Filled  with  all  perfumed  things 

Of  leaf  and  flower! 

How  trembles  the  soft  air 

With  music  everywhere 

As  the  Sun  lays  his  cheek 

Upon  the  mountain  peak 

When  Day  has  come! 

Song. 

Butterflies,  butterflies,  lend  us  your  wings, 
Let  us  float  with  you  through  the  summer  air, 
Where  the  happy  robin  sings, 
Where  the  golden  poppies  bloom, 
Where  the  lily  blossoms  fair. 

Mocking-bird,  mocking-bird,  singing  in  the  tree, 
Who  has  filled  your  happy  breast  with  song? 
Did  the  breezes  floating  free 
Through  the  fragrant  orange  tree 
Bear  the  strains  along 


From  the  land  where  bulbuls  sing, 

Where  the  spicy  breezes  blow, 

And  the  glad  brooks  whisper  low 

To  the  bluebells  as  they  ring, 

Ring,  ring,  as  on  slender  stalks  they  swing? 

Where  the  fireflies  twinkling  pass — 
Such  a  shining  host  and  fair — 
With  their  lanterns,  through  the  grass, 
Making  all  the  earth  as  bright 
As  the  starry  skies  at  night. 

O  the  breath  of  orange  bloom 
Floating  down  the  river ! 
O  the  sweetness  of  the  lilies 
On  their  stems  a-quiver ! 
O  so  light  of  heart  we  sail 
Up  the  shining  river! 

The  Mountain  Stream. 

Hast  thou  a  soul,  O  rippling  water!     thou 
That  with  thy  ceaseless  murmur  glidest  by, 
A  thing  of  song  and  tireless  melody? 
Along  thy  banks  a  fringe  of  blossoms  now 
Bends  lovingly  and  fair,  and  rushes  lean 
As  if  some  whispered  secret  lay  between 
Their  hearts  and  thine — 
Secret  divine, 

That  only  fields  and  flowers  may  know 
Along  the  ways  thy  waters  flo%v. 

At  Noon. 

It  was  high  noon,  no  shadows  fell 

Across  the  brightness  of  the  sun-filled  sky, 

And  all  the  birds  that  in  our  summer  dwell 
Sang  softly  to  the  breezes  floating  by. 

The  air  was  full  of  fragrance,  perfumes  sweet, 
And  odors  of  all  odorous  things  that  bloom 

Seemed  like  pure  incense  round  me  there  to  meet, 
Drowning  in  sweetness  all  the  glowing  noon. 

The  small  brooks  rippled  soft  a  silver  tune, 
The  blue  sky  gleamed,  a  dome  of  shining  light, 

It  was  December,  yet  it  seemed  like  June, 
The  year's  glad  morning  rather  than  its  night. 

An  Arctic  Day. 

I  think  I  was  not  dreaming,  but  some  way 

Self  slipped  from  self,  and  then  unhindered  sped 
Beyond  the  seas  where  mighty  icebergs  stray, 
And  half  the  year  is  night  and  half  is  day. 

Shuddering,  within  that  hoary-frozen  zone, 

Which  seemed  the  mighty  ruins  of  a  sphere 
In  its  dead  silence,  lo!     I  stood  alone, 
With  not  e'en  tossing  billow  to  make  moan. 


195 


Snatches  of  Song. 


How  dreadful  was  the  solitude!     It  seemed  to  me 

As  if  the  world  had  died,  and  only  I 
Upon  that  awful,  silent,  frozen  sea 
Of  all  things  earthly  had  not  ceased  to  be. 

Love's  Dream.     (1891.) 

I  dream  of  thee  by  day  as  flowers  dream  of  the  light, 
And  toward  thee  turns  my  heart  as  in  the  night 
The  sweet  Earth  turns  to  greet  the  coming  Dawn. 
Without  thee  it  is  night;  with  thee  'tis  morn. 

Thy  words  are  my  heart's  flowers  whene'er  they  breathe 
Thy  love  to  me;  and  when  Love's  smile  doth  wreathe 
Thy  lips,  my  sun  is  shining  clear, 
There  is  no  cloud  in  all  Joy's  hemisphere. 

Sonnet.     (1892.) 

There  is  a  soul  within  this  day  so  fair, 

A  heart  pulsing  in  the  soft  winds  that  sweep 
Past  us  so  noiselessly  on  viewless  feet, 
Breathing  the  sunshine  of  this  cloudless  air, 
Calm  as  a  maiden's  heart  that's  free  from  care. 
Autumn,  sweet  Autumn,  youth  is  still  with  thee, 
And  not  a  wrinkle  on  thy  face  we  see, 


Xo  sign  of  age  amid  thy  golden  hair, 

And  luminous  thy  bending  skies  of  blue; 
Sweet  smiles  November  as  she  peereth  through, 
Wrapping  herself  in  mantle  of  green  leaves, 
Crowning  herself  with  many  buds  and  flowers, 
Divinely  sweet  the  tropic  charms  she  weaves, 
And  spun  with  gold  these  sunny  days  of  ours. 


Love's  World.     (1892.) 

Oh,  it  is  sweet  to  live  and  ever  know 

A  perfect  love  is  yours,  one  full  of  grace, 
With  never  in  its  perfectness  a  place 

For  any  thought  but  that  does  upward  grow 

To  loyalty  and  tenderness — to  know 

You  one  true  heart's  most  secret  thoughts  may  share. 
Doubling  its  joys  and  halving  all  its  care. 

Life  is  worth  living  when  we  live  it  so; 
The  world  is  fair,  we  do  not  see  its  tears, 
Xor  feel  its  griefs,  nor  tremble  at  its  fears. 

'Tis  always  morning  in  the  heart  of  love; 

'Tis  always  youth,  for  Love  does  ne'er  grow  old, 
'Tis  summer  always,  doubt  alone  is  cold, 

Love's  world  is  fair  as  any  world  above. 


196 


Sl)ort  Verse. 


Where  Nature's  blood  ran  pure,  and  cool,  and  sweet." 


IN  MEMORIAM. 
Rockwell.     (1876.) 

Peaceful  thy  rest,  dear  friend ! 
Above  thee  blue  skies  bend, 
And  the  glad  bees  hum; 
And  all  the  long,  bright  year 
The  flowers  bend  low  and  sweet 
To  kiss  thy  head  and  feet. 

And  sweet-voiced  birds  of  song, 
From  all  the  watching  trees, 
Pour  music  on  the  breeze, 
To  soothe  thy  quiet  sleep; 
On  Nature's  tender  breast, 
Wrapped  in  her  sunshine,  rest. 

Stringed  Pearls.     (1884.) 

The  sky  is  hid  behind  the  clouds, 

And  only  dim,  soft  shadows  fall. 

The  long,  black  lines  the  sunlight  shows 

Of  tall  tree-trunks  and  waving  boughs, 

And  lesser  ones,  which  rich  mosaics  make, 

Of  nodding  flowers  so  dewy-eyed  and  sweet. 

Of  birds  on  wing,  and  dainty  butterfly. 

And  airy  bees,  that  buzzing  make  their  way 

Through  air  all  bridged  with  sunshine  as  they  go. 

I  cannot  find  today,  for  shadows  are 

But  twin  with  sunshine,  as  sorrow  is  with  joy. 


A  Mountain  Lake.     (1886.) 

It  sleeps  among  the  hills  serene  and  cool, 
With  scarce  a  ripple  on  its  placid  breast, 

Mirroring  the  sky,  as  if  it  had  dropped  down 
Within  its  deeps  for  slumber  and  for  rest. 

The  leaning  trees  unto  their  shadows  bend, 
As  in  a  dream  the  softest  breezes  blow, 

Flower  turns  to  flower  as  if  it  sought  a  friend, 
And  o'er  its  blue  the  birds  they  come  and  go. 

Nature  is  here  and  man  hath  not  a  place, 
But  silence  lingers  save  when  breezes  stir 

Or  wild-birds  sing,  or  silver-footed  rain 

Comes  pattering  down   through    forest   corridor. 

Or  when  the  crickets  chirp  within  the  shade, 
Or  acorns  drop  from  off  the  bending  tree, 

Or  the  wild  stag  comes  bounding  down  the  slope 
To  drink  its  waters  which  are  flowing  free. 

()  placid  lake,  so  cool,  so  still,  so  fair! 

A  gem  upon  the  bosom  of  the  wild, 
Beloved  of  hills  and  of  the  running  streams, 

Of  mountain  springs  thou  art  the  cherished  child. 


How  Far?     (1887.) 

The  earth  spins  round,  while  o'er  it  lies 
The  sun-filled,  star-strewn  deep  of  skies; 
The  sunlight  but  a  golden  sea, 
Beyond  whose  deeps  the  planets  be. 
O  golden  floods  of  light!  how  far 
Beyond  your  deepest  deeps  is  star 
And  outmost  world,  whose  orbit  nears 
God's  throne,  the  center  of  the  spheres? 

Life.     (1887.) 

Life  hath  such  little  worth  if  life  is  all 
But  life  of  earth;  if  with  the  pall 
Of  death  covering  our  senseless  clay 
Our  being  passes  into  nothingness  away. 

The  Summer  Brook.     (1887.) 

It  was  a  summer  day;  the  woods  were  green, 

The  sky  was  wondrous  fair,  without  a  speck 

Of  cloud;  with  golden,  sunny  sheen 

The  hills  were  dressed,  while  from  their  sides  between 

A  little  glad  brook  ran,  with  here  and  there  a  fleck 

Of  shadow  on  its  breast  of  swaying  leaf, 

Or  happy  singing  bird,  whose  wing 

Swept  the  bright  air,  or  flew  from  bough  to  bough, 

As  if  in  search  of  larger  room  to  sing. 

The  brook  ran  merrily  the  summer  meadow  through, 

Leaping  sometimes  in  laughter  o'er  the  stones, 

Kissing  the  flowers,  as  if  its  love  were  new, 

Then  singing  to  them  as  a  mother  croons 

In  softest  tones  her  baby's  ear  unto. 

And  then  it  lay,  with  shining  face  and  still, 

In  silent  pools,  with  sunshine  only  shed 

Upon  its  edge,  a  golden  border  spread 

Of  lingering  sunbeams  holding  souls  of  noons. 

O  happy  brook!  the  sky  looked  down  to  it 

And  lost  itself  in  looking  in  its  breast; 

And  on  its  banks  did  dreaming  lovers  sit, 

Heart  answering  heart  beneath  the  quiet  lip. 

While  to  its  mirror  all  the  grasses  prest, 

And   dipped  their  green   blades   in  its  silver  tide. 

And  Noon  breathed  softly  sitting  it  beside, 

And  lost  the  fever  of  her  sultry  heat 

Where  Nature's  blood  ran  pure,  and  cool,  and  sweet. 

0  Happy  Bird!      (1891.) 

O  happy  bird  sitting  at  dawn  in  the  leafy  tree, 

What  do  the  breezes  whisper  to  you,  blowing  so  free? 

Do  you  see  their  airy,  fairy  fingers  so  lightly 

Lifting  all  the  pretty  green,  and  swaying  dancing  leaves? 

Do  you  see  the  shining  sunbeams  as  they  so  brightly 

Paint  with  gold  the  highest  crests  of  all  the  tallest  trees  '• 


197 


Other  Short  Verse. 


Sitting  on   your   nest   with  all  its  leafy  curtains   drawn, 
Do  the  sunbeams  come  a-knocking  in  the  early  Dawn? 
Do  you  see  Night's  shadows  as  slowly  they  slip  away 
Down  the  unseen  hillsides  of  the  purple-tinted  West? 
Do  you  see  the  shining  East  with  the  twinkling  star  of  Day 
Like  a  jewel  on  the  brightening  glory  of  its  breast? 

Dolce  Far  Niente.     (1891.) 
Not  a  cloud  anywhere  in  the  sky, 
Not  a  breath  in  the  wide  air  astir; 
Not  the  spread  of  a  sail,  or  the  whirr 
Of  a  wing  in  its  flight  through  the  deep, 
Luminous  sky  ;  the  bee  is  asleep  ; 
The  flowers  are  breathless  and  still; 
It  is  noon  in  the  sky,  on  the  hill, 
In  the  valley  and  canon,  and  I, 
Beneath  the  blue  tent  of  the  sky, 
Dream,  bathed  in  the  gold  of  the  hours, 
And  drowned  in  the  perfume  of  flowers. 

Sweet  By-and-By. 
O  shining  land  !  Sweet   By-and-By, 

How  dear  and  fair  thou  art; 
You  live  in  dreams  of  beauty  rare, 

Forever  in   my  heart; 
My  castles  high  of  hope  and  love 

I  rear  within  thy  light, 
And  hope  makes  all  thy  stars  and  suns 

Resplendent  to  my  sight. 

How  clear  thy  silver  waters  flash, 

How  vast  thy  mountains  stand; 
How  soft  thy  spicy  winds  do  blow 

Round  me  on  either  hand; 
And  Love  pipes  on  his  silver  reed, 

Pipes  tenderly  and  long, 
Till  all  my  spirit  seems  to  melt 

In  answering  love  and  song. 

An  Eastern  July  Noon. 

The  blue  air  palpitated  with  the  Summer's  heat, 
The  sky  let  fall  its  drooping  lids  upon  the  hills, 
And  through  the  sultriness  the  Summer  rills 
Hummed  drowsily,  as  if  half  in  dream, 
And  the  patient  cattle  stood  within  the  stream, 
And  lazily  the  butterfly,  with  yellow  wings, 
Just  stirred  the  air,  which  lightly  breathed, 
Like  a  great  soul  asleep,  while  wreathed 
In  luminous  haze,  like  a  soft  curtain  drawn 
Which  shut  out  all  the  dewy  scents  of  morn, 
The  Earth  lay  swooning  in  the  arms  of  Noon. 


*    The  Stars.     (1897.) 

But  oh,  the  stars  !  the  far-off,  silent  stars, 
Holding  their  own  within  the  blue  of  Night, 
Twinkling  with  glory  on  our  wondering  sight  — 

Their  beams  down-falling  like  the  silver  spars 

From  some  swift  meteor,  moving  on  through  space; 
Unto  our  earth-ears  silent,  vet  the  face 


Of  Nature  turneth  to  them,  and  her  ears 
Catch  the  full  chorus  of  all  starry  spheres. 

Our  Summer  Land. 

The  earth  is  starred  with  blossoms  beautiful, 
With  lily  and  with  rose  her  lap  is  full; 
The  lily  leans  upon  her  slender  stem, 
The  roses  weave  a  wondrous  diadem. 
Earth  smiles  unto  the  sky,  and  back  again 
Drop  sun  and  stars  their  answering  smile  to  men. 

This  Summer  Day.     (1897.) 

O  day  of  days !  divinely  fair  and  sweet, 

With  summer  in  the  sky  and  at  our  feet; 

Her  hair  so  golden  and  her  eyes  so  blue, 

Feasting  on  sunshine  and  on  silver  dew; 

Her  breath  is  like  the  perfume  of  the  flowers; 

Her  voice  like  bird-song  through  the  shining  hours; 

Her  smile,  ah  me!  could  angels'  brighter  be, 

As  drops  its  light  upon  our  land  and  sea? 

One  little  line  above  must  lie  between 

This  realm  of  beauty  and  the  realm  unseen. 

The  Sabbath. 

The  Sabbath  comes,  a  pause  within  the  week, 

A  breath  from  Heaven,  a  gleam  from  Eden's  day; 

O  would  its  brightness  still  might  'round  us  stay 

In  the  high  mountains  of  our  cares  so  bleak! 

Would  we  might  breathe  amid  their  chilling  snows 

Diviner  airs,  and  see  Hope's  stars  arise, 

And  'neath  the  clouds  that  ofttimes  dim  our  skies, 

Behold  the  river  of  God's  love  which  round  us  flows. 

Our  Father. 

God's  silent  kiss  is  on  the  shining  sky, 

His  tenderness  upon  the  whispering  leaves, 

His   footsteps  wander  in  the  sunbeams  by, 
His  bounteous  love  is  in  our  ripened  sheaves. 

Thanksgiving. 

The  laughing  sunlight  ripples  through  the  trees, 
The  blue  skies  bend  above  us,  calm  and  clear; 
Flowers  pour  their  incense  on  the  atmosphere, 
And  yellow-breasted,  light-winged  argosies 
Of  honey-bearing  bees  flit  here  and  there; 
Full-flooded   sunshine   gleameth   everywhere. 
With  Nature  as  with  us  it  is  Thanksgiving  time, 
And  songs  of  happy  birds  seem  set  to  rhyme, 
And  soul  of  melody  is  in  each  passing  breeze 
Which  stirs  the  leafy  tongues  of  all  the  trees 
Until  they  pour  a  psalm  so  full  and  sweet 
The  blossoms  haste  its  music  to  repeat. 

A  New-born  Babe. 

Say,  baby  sweet ! 

Out  of  the  beautiful  blue  of  the  skies  did  you  come, 
With  the  light  of  the  shining  stars  in  your  eyes, 
And  the  lingering  glory  of  Paradise 


198 


The  Pen  Falls. 


In  the  smile  which  is  round  your  soft  lips  curled? 
And  did  Aurora  lean  in  some  far-off  world, 

With  the  breath  of  spices  upon  her  lips, 

And  kiss  your  dimpled  finger-tips? 
Kiss  them  till  warm  as  her  mouth  they  grew, 
Just  touched  with  the  pink  of  the  sunrise,  too? 
Say,  baby  sweet ! 

A  Sunset  Psalm. 
There  was   a   glory  on   the  tree-tops   when   the   day  \vs 

dying, 

As  if  Heaven's  finger  lay  upon  their  crests; 
The  winds  just  stirred  them,  and  its  gentle  sighing 
Was  like  the  sound  of  birds  soft  cooing  in  their  nest. 

How  danced  the  leaves  of  shimmering  vines  and  roses, 
How  sweet  the  psalm  of  fragrance  from  their  lips; 

How  rare  the  Gloria  in  Excelsis  pouring 
From  all  the  myriads  of  their  shining  tips! 

A  Fragment. 

God's  unseen  hand  I  think  is  everywhere — 
Doth  He  not  lead  the  wandering  bird  in  air- 
Else  how  o'er  pathless  distances  can  it, 
Sure-winged  and  strong  and  all  unerring  flit, 
Without  a  line  or  compass  in  the  sea 
Of  sky  all  islandless,  and  wide  and  deep 
As  the  far  spaces  where  the  stars  do  sweep? 

The  Lily's  Death. 

A  swaying  lily  fell  asleep, 

And  low  its  head  was  bent  upon  its  stem, 

And   wandering   breezes   kissed   its   milk-white   hem, 

And  honey-bees  hid  in  its  golden  heart, 

Till  fierce  winds  tore  its  fragile  leaves  apart ; 

Then  Autumn  came  and  gathered  to  her  breast 

The  snow-white  petals,  and  with  noiseless  feet 

Bore  them  where  Summer's  dying  head  did  rest. 

Who  Knows?     (1902.) 

The  hush  of  calm  is  on  the  air, 

The  winds  scarce  breathe  within  the  light, 

The  grasses  slumber  everywhere, 
And  lovely  roses,  red  and  white, 

Shed  richest  fragrance;  lilies  sweet 

Wall  in  the  pathways  of  my  feet. 

The  lake  uplifts  its  shining  face, 

With  scarce  a  ripple  on  its  breast; 
Within  the  sky  there  is  no  place 

For  any  cloud;  the  sunbeams  rest, 
A  soundless  sea  of  golden  light, 
Filling  the  spaces  infinite. 

The  soul  of  fragrance  seems  to  lie 

Within  the  air;  the  soul  of  song 
Is  hidden,  too,  within  the  sky, 

And  every  breeze  wafts  it  along. 
Oh,  who  can  solve  the  mystery 
Of  air-filled   deeps  of  melody? 


Day.     (1903.) 

With  silent  feet  Night  walks  the  way, 
All  silver-paved  by  shining  stars, 

But  oh,  how  swift,  when  nears  the  Day, 
She  hides  behind  Morn's  golden  bars. 

Then  how  the  little  birds  awake, 
Pour  tides  of  song  upon  the  air, 

And  blossoms   fuller  perfume  shake 
From  dew-bathed  petals  everywhere. 

Day  smiles,  the  Sun  pours  forth  his  light, 
Growth  walks  abroad  unhindered,   free, 

And  golden  glory  fills  the  sight, 
And  oh,  how  sweet  it  is  to  be. 

To  be,  in  God's  great  world  of  sun, 

In  God's  great  world  of  night  and  stars, 

Then  lo!  when  time  for  us  is  done, 
Death  endless  Life's  wide  gate  unbars. 

Good-Night. 

The  day  has  gone  to  sleep  within  the  vales, 
Shadows  are  cradled  in  the  em'rald  grass, 

And  on  the  heights  the  roseate  sunset  pales, 
And  from  the  clouds  the  crimson  colors  pass. 

Good-night,  sweet  Day !     The  stars  come  out  on  high 
To  watch  the  pathway  which  your  footsteps  trod, 

And  pave  with  vastness  the  great  deeps  of  sky. 
And  bring  our  souls  in  fuller  touch  with  God. 


THE  PEN  FALLS. 
November  in  Sunland. 

[The  last   poern  of   Mrs.   Otis,    written   Nov.   8.    1904,   on 
the   bed   from    which   she  never  rose.] 

In  the  far  East  the  Autumn's  fires  are  burning, 
The  forests  burst  into  a  crimson  glow, 
The  air  is  full  of  whispers  of  the  snow, 

The  winds  awake,  the  river's  tides  are  turning 
To  meet  the  frosts  that  will  enchain  them  soon 
And  weld  their  icy  fetters  till  the  noon 

Of  the  glad  Springtime.     But  here  the  Summer's 

breath 

Still  lingers,  the  many  blossoms  wake, 
Color  and  sweetness  from  the  sunshine  take, 

They  show  no  signs  of  fading  or  of  death; 
The  Summer  trails  her  lovely  garments  still, 
And  smiles  at  us  from  every  vale  and  hill. 

The  leaves  are  green,  the  waters  ripple  by, 
And  bird-song  floats  upon  the  sunny  air, 
The  butterflies  are  flying  everywhere 

On  their  wings,  like  blossoms  in  the  sky; 
November  comes  with  heart  of  sunny  June, 
With  Summer's  loveliness  'tis  all  attune. 


199 


PART   II. 

DESCRIPTIVE  PROSE. 


BRIDAL   VEIL   FALLS,  YOSEMITE. 


IN  THE  YOSEMITE. 

CAMPING  AND   CLIMBING  IN  WONDERLAND. 


IN  the  summer  of  1878,  Mrs.  Otis,  with  a 
congenial  party,  including  two  lady  com 
panions,  an  artist,  a  botanist  and  others, 
made  a  notable  wagon-trip  from  Santa  Barbara  to 
the  Yosemite  Valley  and  return.  On  the  trip  she 
wrote  numerous  graphic  descriptive  letters, 
which  were  published  and  read  with  keen 
pleasure.  These  letters  are  not  reproduced  in 
this  volume,  but  the  compiler  cannot  refrain 
from  selecting  at  least  one  of  them  and  also  one 
chapter  from  an  unpublished  sketch  by  the 
author,  describing  the  closing  of  her  trip,  "  From 
the  Seacoast  to  the  Sierras,  with  Glimpses  of 
the  Yosemite." 


SIGHT-SEEING  IN  THE  YOSEMITE. 

GENERAL    VIEW    OF    THE    VALLEY. 

YOSEMITE  VALLEY,  July  31,  1878.— Yosemite  cannot 
he  put  into  words.  For  the  colossal  grandeur  of  its 
rock-wrought  walls  language  can  find  no  cunning  device 
of  expression  that  will  paint  them;  speech  no  words  with 
graphic  power  sufficient  for  their  delineation.  A  Divine 
Architect  reared  its  lofty  ramparts,  chiseled  its  "Cathe 
dral"  and  shaped  its  "Domes,"  carved  its  "Royal 
Arches,"  and  dropped  from  its  cloud-capped  heights 
its  "Vernal"  waterfalls. 

In  the  old  eternity  of  the  past— in  the  far-off  glacial 
epochs — Nature,  perhaps  with  her  chisels  of  icebergs 
and  flow  of  torrents,  wrought  through  the  silent  ages 
to  hew  and  carve  and  shape  its  architectural  grandeur. 
Or,  perchance  the  hand  of  convulsions  rent  the  solid  rock, 
and  with  the  ploughshare  of  the  earthquake  furrowed  the 
valley  and  formed  its  bed.  Or  with  instantaneous  crash 
the  solid  mountains,  shaken  by  internal  throes,  may 
have  snapped  asunder,  and  down  into  unfathomable 
abysms  sunk  the  vast  mass,  once  lying  between  its  now 
vertical  walls,  and  Yosemite,  with  all  its  magnificent 
grandeur,  stood  a  complete  creation — the  wonder  of  all 
lands,  the  perfection  of  Nature's  architectural  tri 
umphs. 

The  wonders  of  Yosemite  touched  even  the  untutored 
heart  of  the  savage,  and  not  a  colossal  rock,  not  a  shin 
ing  waterfall,  not  a  dome  or  peak  or  "Cathedral"  tower 
from  the  bold  and  lofty  front  of  El  Capitan  to  the 
majestic  heights  of  Clouds'  Rest,  but  has  its  legend  of 
wonder  or  its  tale  of  mystery.  Yosemite  is  not  an  after 
thought  of  Creation.  Xo  lessons  of  chance,  no  hand 
writing  of  inharmonious  law,  are  inscribed  like  blind 


hireoglyphics  upon  its  lofty  sides,  but  on  all  its  rock- 
ribbed  walls,  and  towering  "Sentinel  Rock,"  law  is  writ 
ten,  and  the  wisdom  of  Infinite  Design  is  eternally  pho 
tographed. 

The  Yosemite  Valley  is  a  wild  and  rock-walled  carton — 
a  vast  gorge  or  depression  between  nearly  vertical 
granite  walls,  averaging  nearly  4,000  feet  in  height,  and 
rising  at  some  points  to  the  stupendous  altitude  of  5,700 
feet.  The  bed  of  the  valley  is  nearly  level,  and  is  about 
six  miles  in  length  and  from  half  a  mile  to  a  mile  in 
width.  The  main  Merced  River,  fed  by  the  eternal 
snows  of  the  Sierras,  flows  through  it,  not  with  the  rush 
of  an  angry  torrent,  but  with  murmuring,  musical  ca 
dences,  blending  the  symphony  of  its  swift-flowing 
waters  with  the  wind-born  harmonies  of  rustling  leaves 
and  forest  anthems. 

The  valley  is  4,060  feet  above  sea  level,  and  in  por 
tions  is  thickly  tree-clad—studded  with  lofty  pines  and 
cedars.  Its  attractions  are  infinite  and  varied. 

As  the  tourist  approaches  it  from  the  Mariposa  road, 
the  massive,  solid  front  of  El  Capitan  lifts  itself  up 
3,300  feet,  clear-out  in  shining  granite.  To  its  right, 
across  the  entrance  to  the  valley,  the  Three  Graces— ma 
jestic  heights,  carved  and  rounded,  and  leaning  with 
graceful  inclination  towards  the  cartoned  deep  of  Yo 
semite,  rise  skyward  3,750  feet— the  giant  sentinels  which 
guard  the  valley's  gates. 

The  panoramic  effect  of  the  approaches  to,  and  of 
the  exterior  walls  of  the  valley  are  indescribable,  in 
company  with  our  botanist  I  came  in  full  view  of  them 
on  horseback.  We  stopped  a  few  moments,  and,  with 
uncovered  heads,  looked  and  were  silent.  Speech  seemed 
like  profanation.  As  we  moved  on,  a  sort  of  terror 
seemed  to  seize  our  horses.  The  walled  heights  before 
them,  white  in  the  glare  of  the  noonday  sun,  attracted 
even  their  brute  gaze,  and  they  shivered  and  drew  close 
together,  and  with  heads  erect,  with  distended  nostrils, 
and  ears  thrown  back,  they  moved  on  only  through  con 
stant  urging.  Its  effect  upon  them  was  so  noticeable 
we  both  remarked  it. 

The  general  color  of  the  walls  of  the  valley  is  a  light 
gray,  but  in  the  full  noonday  sunlight  they  dazzle  with 
their  whiteness.  Some  portions  of  the  walls  are  vertically 
striped  with  gray,  brown  and  black  lines,  which  pro 
duce  a  peculiar  yet  far  from  unpleasing  effect. 

In  passing  from  Inspiration  Point,  the  tourist,  taking 
the  wagon  road  which  runs  in  zigzag  lines  down  the 
steep  mountain  sides,  makes  a  descent  of  nearly  3,000 
feet  before  he  reaches  the  level  of  the  valley.  In  the 
course  of  this  descent  the  dominant  features  of  the 
valley  are  presented  to  the  eye.  The  Domes,  Cathedral 
Rock,  with  the  lofty  spires  rising  500  feet  above  the 
main  body  of  the  cathedral-like  mass;  the  central  view 
of  the  valley,  glimpses  of  the  carton  of  Tenayn  Fork, 
Sentinel  Rock,  and  far  off  the  shining  whiteness  of 


201 


In  the  Yosemite. 


Clouds'  Rest,  are  all  within  sweep  of  the  vision.  And 
all  along  the  way  down  to  the  valley's  entrance  gleams 
the  Bridal  Veil  with  its  gossamer-like  tissue,  its  diamond 
mist,  and  its  swaying  folds  touched  with  prismed  beauty. 
The  principal  waterfalls  are  the  Bridal  Veil,  Yosemite, 
Vernal,  Nevada,  South  Fork,  Sentinel,  and  Royal  Arch 
Fall.  The  principal  mountains  are  Half  Domes,  or 
Tis-sa-ack,  the  significance  of  which  is  Goddess  of  the 
Valley;  Clouds'  Rest,  North  Dome,  Washington  Tower, 
Cap  of  Liberty,  Mt.  Starr  King,  Glacier  Rock,  Sentinel, 
Cathedral  Rock,  Three  Graces,  Three  Brothers,  and  El 
Capitan,  or  Tu-toch-ah-nu-lah— the  Great  Chief  of  the 
Valley.  Of  all  these  points  I  propose  to  write  you,  giv 
ing  a  separate  letter  to  each,  as  I  visit  and  explore  them. 
In  no  other  way  can  I  give  you  any  just  conception 
of  them,  or  of  their  surroundings.  [The  letters  were 
written  and  published — Ed.] 

There  are  two  small  ranchos  in  the  valley  under 
cultivation.  The  ranch-houses,  standing  at  the  base  of 
the  precipitous  walls  of  the  valley,  look  like  playthings 
when  contrasted  with  them. 

We  have  gone  into  permanent  camp  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  valley,  opposite  Glacier  Rock,  and  with  the  Royal 
Arches  in  our  rear.  Each  evening  brings  us  the  grand 
illumination  of  the  Royal  Half  Dome.  Clouds'  Rest, 
beyond  it,  catches  the  glowing  red  of  the  sunset  glory, 
and  stands  gleaming  afar  like  the  Mount  of  Trans 
figuration,  and  as  the  sunlight  fades,  the  starry  firma 
ment  sinks  and  rests  on  the  uplifted  heights  of  the 
magnificent  North  Dome  and  the  purpling  crest  of 
Sentinel  Rock.  Behind  the  shadow-enveloped  heights 
of  the  Cap  of  Liberty,  like  a  gem  in  the  royal  diadem 
of  the  mountain,  rises  Jupiter,  in  the  clear  radiance  of 
his  starry  light,  and  the  eyelids  of  the  day  shut  softly 
down  over  the  silent  mountains  and  the  slumbering 
valley.  Not  a  sound  from  the  outer  world  reaches  us 
here,  not  an  echo  of  its  bustle  or  its  strife.  Peace  folds 
us  in,  and  Night's  stars  watch  over  us. 


A  FORTY-MILE  RIDE  TO  CLOUDS' 
REST. 

Where  is  there  a  more  melodious  name  than  that  which 
was  the  birthright  of  Yosemite— Ah-wah-nee?  It  has  in 
it  the  melody  of  its  waterfalls  and  the  rhythmical  full 
ness  of  its  swift-flowing  river. 

And  every  morning  in  Ah-wah-nee  was  a  beautiful 
poem.  The  undertone  of  the  song  was  written  in  the  cold, 
gray  light  of  daw».  But  after  that  came  symphony  and 
sweetness  and  melody. 

There  is  no  drowsiness  when  you  open  your  eyes  in  the 
woods.  Nature  has  a  thousand  voices  with  which  she 
woos  you  from  your  slumber.  From  your  tent  you  watch 
the  gray  shadows  fade,  as  the  flush  of  the  perfect  morn 
lights  up  the  East.  First  is  the  touch  of  pale  yellowish- 
gfeen;  then  come  richer  flushes  and  warmer  tints.  The 


dull  orange  changes  to  a  great  deep  of  shining  gold. 
Then  there  is  a  flame  of  scarlet;  there  is  a  glory  on  the 
hilltops;  the  gray,  cold  crags  light  up.  Some  invisible 
finger  gilds  and  transforms  them.  The  trees  sway  and 
whisper  in  the  breeze  that  stirs  at  sunrise.  What  a  glory 
there  is  in  the  tree-top  when  the  sun  first  strikes  it ! 
There  must  be  gold  somewhere  among  its  emerald.  What 
music  there  is  in  the  woods !  One  can  only  be  glad,  for 
Nature's  peace  is  on  the  world  and  upon  the  heart. 

I  made  my  farewell  tour  in  and  about  the  Yosemite,  go 
ing  to  Clouds'  Rest,  twenty  miles  distant  from  our  camp. 
We  started  at  dawn  when  the  sun  had  only  begun  to 
brighten  the  East,  and  the  faint,  rosy  tints  of  light 
gleamed  as  through  a  curtain.  Well  mounted  on  trusty 
mules,  we  moved  away,  and  before  riding  far  our  feet 
were  aching  with  the  cold  of  the  early  hour. 

The  whole  atmosphere  lay  as  if  asleep  and  pulseless, 
till  we  neared  the  vicinity  of  the  Bridal  Veil,  and  then 
Pohono— the  "Spirit  of  the  Evil  Wind"— whom  the 
Indians  say  haunts  the  region  of  the  fall,  caught  us  and 
pursued  us  till  we  reached  the  gateway  of  El  Capitan, 
where  Tu-toch-ah-nu-lah's  image  stands  carved  in  the 
solid  rock,  the  enduring  monument  of  the  mighty  chief 
who  loved  the  children  of  the  sun  who  dwelt  here  in  the 
early  days  of  Yosemite. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  untutored  mind  of  the  savage 
should  be  stirred  to  superstitious  fancies  in  regard  to  this 
wind,  for  when  the  entire  valley  is  breezeless,  and  not  a 
pulse  of  air  is  astir  elsewhere,  through  this  narrow  gate 
way  between  these  mighty  walls  there  is  the  rush  of 
winged  winds,  and  a  strong,  swift  current  of  air  that 
sometimes  blows  with  a  force  almost,  amounting  to  fury. 

Passing  beyond  this,  we  found  not  a  breeze  afloat,  and 
as  we  passed  Cathedral  Rock  the  golden  gleams  of  the 
sunrise  lighted  up  the  front  of  El  Capitan,  and  touched 
the  lofty  brows  of  the  Three  Brothers  as  they  stood  the 
silent  guardians  beyond  the  river. 

I  looked  with  a  sigh  of  regret  at  the  bare,  rock-built 
height  from  which  the  falls  of  the  Yosemite  had  vanished. 
Not  a  trickling  drop  of  water  fell  from  the  granite  lip 
of  the  precipice.  There  was  just  a  long  dark  line  adown 
the  rock,  marking  the  bed  of  the  fall,  which  lay  a  pall- 
like  shadow  where  once  its  flashing  waters  fell. 

Arriving  at  Barnard's,  a  pleasant  addition  was  made 
to  our  party  in  the  person  of  the  winsome  daughter  of 
the  genial  host,  and  then  we  moved  on  up  the  southern 
bank  of  the  Merced  towards  Snow's. 

The  sunlight  touched  the  water  and  dropped  shining 
gleams  upon  its  waves.  The  old  brown  cedar  logs  which 
lay  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  and  over  which  the  miniature 
billows  rippled,  looked  bronzed  by  the  action  of  the  sun 
and  waves,  till  they  appeared  like  treasures  that  the  miner 
might  covet.  There  were  delightful  shadows  and  flashes 
of  sunlight  among  the  pines;  there  was  the  nodding  of 
cedars,  and  after  a  time  a  whispering  among  the  firs  as 
if  they  wondered  at  our  early  coming,  and  half  resented 
this  early  intrusion  upon  the  forest  quiet. 

The  sun  was  up  above  the  valley's  walls  as  we  entered 
the  mountain  trail  leading  to  Snow's,  which  we  climbed, 


202 


The 


of  Liberty. 


and  toiled  upward  till  we  were  at  the  base  of  the  zigzag 
which  leads  to  the  elevated  plateau  above  the  Nevada 
Falls,  and  beyond  which  is  the  entrance  to  the  Little,  or 
Upper  Yoseniite. 

This  trail  I  have  already  described,  together  with  the 
grand  picture  presented  along  its  way.  The  downlook 
from  these  vast  heights  into  the  seemingly  bottomless 
deeps  of  the  canons  below;  the  rush  and  glory  of  Vernal 
Falls;  the  battlemented  heights  over  which  the  Nevada 
Fall  drops  with  its  thunders;  the  glimpses  of  dome  after 
dome— all  these  and  more  I  have  written  of. 

But  it  was  not  until  this  trip  tnai  I  realized  the  magni 
tude  and  grandeur  of  the  Cap  of  Liberty.  It  rises  up 
on  the  left  side  of  Nevada  Falls  in  complete  isolation,  a 
vast,  rock-wrought  pyramid  4600  feet,  a  cap-like  mass 
of  granite,  with  a  narrow  gorge  on  either  side  of  it,  out  of 
which  issues  the  sublime  utterance  of  the  waters.  It  is  al 
most  perfect,  as  far  as  shape  is  concerned,  in  its  resem 
blance  to  the  "soldier  caps"  worn  during  the  war,  and  it 
is  a  splendid  monument  to  the  liberty  which  our  soldiers 
bought. 

Climbing  the  zigzag  on  the  left  of  the  falls,  we  entered 
the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Little  Yoseniite.  We  passed 
through  a  charming,  meadow-like  expanse,  shaded  by  tall 
pines  and  cedars,  but  beyond  it  were  walls  of  granite, 
and  above  them  the  towering,  snow-clad  heights  of  the 
Sierras,  Mount  Starr  King  stood  out  bolder  than  ever 
to  my  view,  a  lofty,  rounded,  dome-like  structure,  bare 
and  white  as  a  frozen  rock. 

We  climbed  up,  and  still  up,  over  rocks  and  between 
them;  past  gigantic  boulders  that  only  the  hand  of  ter 
rible  convulsions  could  have  planted;  through  forests 
that  are  the  glory  of  these  outlying  heights;  past  rippling 
streams  whose  waves  shone  over  golden  sands,  till  we 
reached  a  grove  of  cedars  at  the  base  of  Clouds'  Rest. 
Here  by  the  side  of  a  running  stream  we  stopped  for 
lunch,  and  turned  our  tired  animals  into  a  patch  of  the 
brightest  emerald  grasses,  watered  by  springs  and  fed 
by  a  running  rivulet.  It  seemed  strange  to  find  such  a 
spot  in  September,  and  at  such  an  elevation— not  less 
than  8000  feet  above  the  sea. 

There  are  numberless  little  brooks  that  murmur  through 
the  long  year  to  these  mountains.  There  were  always 
trees  and  green  grasses  where  they  run— such  glorious 
green  nooks  as  one  would  never  dream  of  finding  at  such 
great  altitude.  There  was  no  dearth  of  flowers.  The 
golden-rod  threw  out  its  long  yellow  wand  and  waved  it 
to  every  passing  breeze.  The  wild  white  lily  shone  like 
a  star,  and  a  delicate  little  purple  blossom— the  Erigeron 
folios'ium — opened  its  many  slender  petals  to  the  sun. 
We  found  here,  too,  the  golden-eyed  blossoms  of  the 
I'olenlilla  glandasa,  and  all  the  banks  of  the  streams  were 
bright  with  bud  and  blossom. 

The  day  was  somewhat  warm  in  the  valley.  It  was 
hot  as  we  climbed  the  steep  zigzag  by  the  Nevada 
Falls.  The  bare  white  rocks  reflected  the  heat  beside, 
before  and  behind  us.  The  white  sands  caught  the 
glare  of  the  sunshine  and  flung  it  back  like  a  furnace 
breath  into  our  faces.  But  when  we  reached  the  valley 


of  the  Little  Yosemite  the  snow-tempered  breezes   from 
the  Sierras  fanned  us  with  a  touch  of  delightful  coolness. 

Here  the  botanist,  riding  on  in  advance,  encountered 
a  huge  rattlesnake.  There  was  a  terrible  battle  between 
the  two,  but  finally  a  well-aimed  blow  from  the  botanist's 
sharp,  heavy  pick  severed  the  reptile's  head  from  his 
body.  Instead  of  taking  the  scalp  of  his  snakeship,  the 
professor  cut  off  fourteen  vattles  as  a  trophy  of  his 
victory. 

Getting  up  into  the  Little  Yosemite,  one  is  alone  with 
primeval  Nature,  for  the  valley  has  in  no  way  ever  been 
disturbed  by  improvements.  Its  waters  sing  on  unchanged 
and  changeless.  Its  surrounding  forests  sweep  as  proudly 
and  as  far  now  as  they  did  ages  ago.  It  lifts  up  still 
the  same  mighty  battlements  of  rocks,  shows  still  the 
same  fair,  placid  sweep  of  meadow,  fringed  along  the 
river's  banks  with  willows,  sycamores  and  cedars,  and 
everywhere  are  the  fairy-like  adjustments  of  light  and 
shade,  the  dropping  of  tree-shadows,  and  the  flooding  of 
the  sunshine.  Above,  on  the  hillsides,  are  the  pines,  great 
forest  zones  of  them,  lifting  themselves  up  till  their 
pointed  tops  seem  to  pierce  the  blue. 

We  found  here  a  quiet  world.  There  was  the  occa 
sional  falling  of  the  heavy  cones.  The  busy  squirrel  was 
collecting  his  breakfast,  and  the  daintiest  epicure  would 
have  enjoyed  sharing  it  with  him.  I  am  afraid  that  we 
trenched  somewhat  upon  his  stores,  for  we  captured  some 
of  the  pine  cones  that  he  had  cut  off  and  rolled  up 
against  the  foot  of  the  tree,  all  ready  for  his  work  of 
picking  out  from  them  the  ripe  seeds.  We  also  gathered 
some  of  the  immense  cones  of  the  sugar-pine,  which  were 
from  eighteen  to  twenty  inches  in  length— long,  slender, 
tapering  things,  full  of  resinous  sweetness. 

In  the  meadow-like  expanse  near  the  mouth  of  the 
Little  Yoseniite  we  found  the  ground  bright  with  the 
creamy,  purple-flecked  blossoms  of  the  Spraguea  umbel- 
lata.  It  grows  in  shining,  circular  clusters  like  a  crown, 
the  flowers  nestling  among  the  long,  slender  green  leaves 
of  the  plant,  which  surround  them  like  a  fringe.  All  the 
wide  stretch  above  the  Nevada  Falls  was  starred  with 
them. 

"  Oh,  what  lovely  souvenirs !  We  cannot  have  too  many 
of  them!"  exclaimed  the  enchanted  botanist,  and  so  with 
the  spade-end  of  his  pick  he  carefully  uprooted  them 
and  put  them  into  his  flower  press  as  tenderly  as  if  they 
hiiu  possessed  a  life  akin  to  his  own,  and  today  some  of 
them  lift  up  as  bright  faces  to  me  from  the  pages  of 
my  flower  album  as  they  did  from  the  beauty  of  their 
native  meadow. 

Farther  up  the  earth  smiled  with  the  beautiful  blue 
gentian.  There  are  garden  spots  far  up  on  these  lofty 
heights  that  rise  about  the  Yosemite  which  thrill  one  with 
the  bright  beauty  of  their  numberless  blossoms.  In  this 
upper,  silent  world  it  would  seem  that  the  Sun  watches 
the  F.arth  with  a  tenderness  that  he  does  not  feel  for  the 
regions  lying  farther  down.  Here  the  Sky  brightens  for 
the  Earth,  and  the  Earth  blooms  for  the  Sky. 

We  should  have  loved  to  loiter  for  hours  in  the  charm 
ing  spot  where  we  lunched.  The  air  was  full  of  piney 

fragrance,  and  the  shadows  fell  cool  on  the  slope  where 


203 


In  the  Yosemite. 


we  sat  by  the  side  of  the  rippling  water.  There  was  a 
huge  cedar  log  stretched  along  the  edge  of  the  grassy 
plot,  like  a  slumbering  giant.  Beyond  the  green  expanse 
rose  the  mountain  walls  covered  with  trees  along  their 
base,  and  higher  up  with  a  heavy  growth  of  shaggy  under 
brush,  shining  in  great  glowing  patches  of  red,  brown 
and  green. 

Above  this  wild,  tangled  zone  rose  the  white,  bare  uplift 
of  granite  rock.  It  looked  as  high  as  the  sky  above  us. 
A  hawk  circled  in  the  air  far  below  it,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  break  the  silence  upon  its  crest. 

The  eagle  loves  this  spot,  and  builds  here  his  eyrie. 
On  those  sunlit  crags  he  can  rear  his  young  nor  fear 
human  molestation.  All  the  wild  solitudes  of  the  air  and 
of  the  mountains  are  his.  He  is  the  Robinson  Crusoe 
among  the  birds,  the  grand  monarch  of  all  this  upper 
world  of  air  and  sunshine.  He  is  serene  amid  the  storms, 
and  unmoved  amid  the  tempests  of  these  awful  deserts 
of  volcanic  peaks,  and  his  dark  wings  sweep  the  ether 
like  lonely  sails  upon  a  silent  sea. 

After  a  short  rest  we  went  on.  The  trail  was  almost 
obliterated  by  the  passage  of  large  bands  of  sheep,  and 
one  not  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  route  would  be 
unable  to  find  the  way  to  the  summit  without  a  guide. 
It  is  rocky  and  steep,  and  in  places,  for  one  not  perfectly 
at  home  in  the  saddle,  is,  on  account  of  its  steepness  and 
rockiness,  dangerous. 

It  is  the  only  trail  leading  to  points  of  interest  about 
the  Yosemite  where  the  services  of  a  guide  are  neces 
sary,  but  here  they  are  really  indispensable. 

We  lost  our  trail  two  or  three  times,  and  wandered  off 
into  the  one  leading  into  the  wild  solitudes  of  the  Mono 
Pass,  trodden  years  ago  by  so  many  patient  gold  diggers. 

I  longed  for  time  to  enable  me  to  go  out  into  some  of 
these  byways  of  the  Yosemite,  where  Nature  lies  in  such 
strange,  savage  wildness.  I  had  heard  so  much  of  Mono 
Lake — that  beautiful,  shining  silver  disk,  "surrounded 
with  sage-brush  and  ashes,  with  volcanic  cones  rising  in 
clusters  towards  the  south,  and  blue  mountains  far 
beyond,  swelling  range  over  range,  and  fading  on  the 
glowing  horizon,"  that  my  thoughts  reached  out  with  a 
strong  yearning  to  visit  it.  All  this  grand,  untamed  wild- 
ness  of  Nature  was  in  keeping  with  my  mood.  With  a 
saddle  for  my  pillow  and  a  blanket  for  my  bed,  sheltered 
by  the  starry  brightness  of  California's  skies,  I  could  find 
delightful  rest  wherever  night  might  overtake  me.  This 
wild,  free  life  out  of  doors !  I  reveled  and  exulted  in  it, 
and  with  the  glorious  beauty  of  the  cloudless  blue  above 
me,  with  the  rich,  golden  strata  of  sunshine  covering  all 
the  earth,  and  with  the  wildness  and  mystery  of  the 
Sierra  regions  stretching,  it  seemed,  into  infinity  beyond 
me,  there  was  everything  to  entice  me  onward. 

But  we  came  back  again  and  went  up  the  steep  sides 
of  the  sky-reaching  promontory  towards  the'  summit  of 
Clouds'  Rest,  sometimes  passing  along  rocky  ledges, 
where  was  only  the  narrowest  foothold  for  our  mules. 
Once  a  treacherous  hole  entrapped  one  of  the  hind  feet 
of  my  animal.  Sitting  in  my  saddle  while  she  strug 
gled  to  pull  her  foot  out  again,  I  thought  of  a  child's 


definition  of  a  mule:  "A  mule  is  a  animal  with  four 
legs,  one  at  each  corner."  But  surely  my  mule  was  all 
corners.  They  stuck  out  everywhere,  and  it  did  not  seem 
as  if  there  were  less  than  four  legs  at  each  corner,  and 
every  one  of  them  was  letting  out  perpetual  motion. 

Finally  the  foot  was  extricated,  and  her  next  diver 
sion  was  to  break  through  an  old  rotten  stump  in  our 
path,  which  scattered  into  as  many  splinters  as  there 
are  stars  in  the  Milky  Way,  and  from  that  the  animal 
gave  a  frightened  bound  to  the  ledge  below,  landing 
within  an  inch  of  its  edge. 

I  managed  to  keep  my  saddle  through  all  this  by-play ; 
but  I  was  not  sorry  when  it  was  over,  for  I  did  not  care 
to  practice  any  more  gymnastic  feats  "on  the  hurricane 
deck  of  a  mule." 

We  were  a  little  off  from  our  trail  when  all  this 
happened.  Our  guide  was  far  in  advance,  searching  for 
the  lost  trail.  We  could  only  see  his  broad  sombrero 
above  the  top  of  the  shaggy  chaparral.  My  lady  com 
panion  was  behind  me,  sitting  securely  in  her  saddle,  with 
all  the  brave  coolness  of  a  trained  mountaineer.  I  was 
thankful  that  she  was  not  given  to  feminine  shrieks  and 
hysterical  displays,  for  the  mule  had  enough  to  occupy 
her  without  them.  I  was  reassured  when  I  heard  her 
merry,  ringing  laugh  as  my  mule  landed  on  all  fours  on 
the  ledge  below,  and  she  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  you've  no  idea  how  funny  you  looked  when  you 
went  diving  into  that  stump;  and  when  the  mule  jumped 
she  looked  like  a  spider  with  six  legs,  for  her  ears  were 
as  long  as  her  legs  and  bobbed  as  frantically." 

Fairly  down,  I  felt  a  momentary  fright  at  what  I  had 
gone  through,  and  with  characteristic  feminine  positive- 
ness  declared  that  I  would  not  go  another  step  until  the 
right  trail  was  discovered. 

"Wandering  around  in  this  underbrush,  there  is  no 
knowing  what  pits  we  may  fall  into,  or  how  many  more 
rotten  stumps  we  may  demolish.  Just  as  likely  as  not 
we  shall  drop  into  a  coyote's  hole,  and  he  won't  welcome 
us,  or  pitch  into  a  nest  of  rattlesnakes  among  these 
rocks." 

So  we  turned  our  animals  around  and  went  down  the 
steep  mountainside  towards  a  beckoning  cedar,  there  to 
sit  in  its  pleasant  shadow  till  the  guide  should  return. 

It  was  a  lovely  picture  which  lay  below  us  there.  The 
variegated  expanses  of  undergrowth  on  the  mountain 
side — below  that  the  narrow  belt  of  cedars  and  pines 
mingled  with  the  light-green  of  the  alders  which  skirted 
the  banks  of  the  silver-faced  rivulet,  and  farther  on,  the 
green  and  shining  dell  covered  with  rich  grasses  and 
bright,  alpen-like  blossoms;  still  farther  away,  the  sweep 
of  the  solemn  pine  forests,  and  overtopping  them,  and 
stretching  to  the  far  horizon's  verge,  the  unbroken  sweep 
of  mountains. 

The  green  meadow  was  inclosed  by  a  rustic  fence; 
curved  and  crooked  it  was,  built  of  boughs  and  twigs. 
But  it  made  the  place  seem  less  solitary.  The  beauty  of 
the  charming  spot  which  it  surrounded  warms  all  of  my 
memory,  even  today.  There  was  not  only  a  running 
brook,  but  there  were  cool,  shining  pools  and  springs  in 


204 


Clouds'  Kent. 


its  heart  that  washed  every  blade  of  the  sweet  grass. 
Close  against  the  bright  greens  were  brilliant  spots  of 
scarlet  and  crimson  blossoms  and  flecks  of  golden-rod. 
It  was  the  very  spot  for  a  fairy's  tenting-ground,  and 
had  we  been  there  on  a  midsummer  night,  when  all  the 
wood  fairies  are  supposed  to  be  visible  to  human  eyes, 
I  could  not  indulge  in  a  moment's  skepticism  in  regard 
to  their  appearance. 

The  little  brook  which  runs  along,  draining  the  south 
flank  of  Clouds'  Rest,  makes  lovely  journeying  to  meet 
Nevada  Creek.  It  is  usually  about  five  feet  wide  and 
a  foot  deep,  and  is  one  of  the  sweetest  singers  on  those 
heights.  Geologists  say  that  it  has  flowed  unfailingly  in 
one  channel  throughout  all  the  long  post-glacial  centuries. 

I  wondered  if  its  musical  voice  was  trilling  the  won 
drous  story  of  the  Past.  What  secrets  of  Nature  it  must 
hold,  what  memories  of  Change!  If  we  could  only  learn 
its  language  and  understand  its  story !  I  do  not  doubt 
but  it  has  a  soul,  or  that  it  utters  its  own  sweet  prophe 
cies,  and  bubbles  of  all  that  it  has  seen;  but  our  ears 
are  too  dull  to  understand  it. 

There  is  but  one  of  its  utterances  that  I  can  read — it 
is  that  of  sweet  content  and  joyousness.  It  has  coquettish 
ways,  though.  Old  as  it  is,  it  has  not  learned  the  lessons 
of  soberness.  It  dances  along,  and  at  times  leaps  up 
over  the  stones  in  its  pathway  and  kisses  the  bending 
grasses.  It  coaxes  the  ferns  to  its  brink  and  breaks  into 
ravishing  ripples  when  the  coy  blossoms  pour  out  their 
fragrance  above  it.  The  trees  bend  and  reach  down 
tender  arms  to  its  waves,  and  it  kisses  their  feet  and 
laves  them  with  its  soft  waters,  and  they  drop  pretty 
billet  doux  of  leaves  upon  its  bosom,  which  it  catches  up 
quickly  and  runs  away  to  read  their  secrets.  But  it  has 
>i  face  of  such  child-like  purity,  I  do  not  think  there  is 
any  designing  artfulness  in  these  ways,  but  they  spring 
from  the  outgushing  love  and  gladness  of  its  joyous 
nature. 

There  were  numerous  little  ant  hills  along  our  path, 
where  the  busy  things  worked  and  threw  up  wonderful, 
mound-like  structures.  Near  them  were,  almost  always, 
the  pits  of  the  ant-lions,  always  waiting  for  their  prey, 
laying  treacherous  snares  for  them,  so  that  even  here,  so 
near  it  seemed  to  heaven,  the  same  life-and-death  strug 
gle  was  progressing  as  in  the  world  of  everyday  life. 

The  rock  scenery  is  rich  in  the  vicinity  of  Clouds' 
Rest.  It  is  a  magnificent  field  for  the  artist.  There 
are  pictures  there  on  those  granite  heights  and  amid 
those  massive  Ixnilders  which  I  am  sure  no  artist  would 
want  to  leave  unpainted. 

Our  art  teacher  had  been  struggling  with  disease  all 
summer,  and  had  not  the  strength  to  climb  much  and 
take  easel  and  paints  with  him.  But  he  had  held  a  sort 
of  high-art  carnival  on  Glacier  Point.  He  had  climbed 
the  steep  trail  on  his  mule  and  taken  a  pack  animal 
along  with  painting  materials,  blankets  and  provisions, 
and  camped  on  the  high  summit  back  of  Union  Point. 
There  he  had  made  his  picture  of  the  valley.  Jack  Frost 
assailed  him  while  there,  pinching  and  worrying  him  at 
night.  But  he  stood  like  another  Casablanca  at  his  post, 


and  did  not  leave  until  he  had  the  valley  in  miniature 
upon  his  canvas.  On  the  summit  of  Clouds'  Rest  the 
outlook  was  different.  It  seemed  an  epitome  of  Nature 
in  all  her  infinite  variety  of  expression.  It  was  a  whole 
grand  gallery,  with  every  subject  full  of  inspiration. 

Far  up  in  a  little  sunny  pool,  where  the  sun  fell  with 
a  soft,  golden  rain  upon  the  crystal  water,  we  found  a 
part  of  the  tiny  skeleton  of  a  child,  evidently  that  of  an 
Indian.  One  could  fancy  the  little  brown,  waxen  face 
and  form  Iving  statue-like  and  still  under  waveless 
waters.  But  nothing  in  that  mountain  world  mourned 
for  the  little  life  that  was  lost.  The  birds  sang  on  in 
the  same  sweet  carols;  the  sunshine  fell  as  warm  and 
bright  upon  the  water,  and  the  blue  sky  spread  the  same 
smiling  canopy  above  the  world.  That  was  years  and 
years  ago,  and  perished  is  the  wigwam  of  the  primitive 
people  who  lost  the  little  one  long  ago. 

After  awhile  the  men  of  our  party  returned  and  in 
formed  us  that  the  right  route  lay  farther  away  to  the 
northeast,  and  so  we  moved  on  in  that  direction  till  we 
struck  a  clear,  solid  trail,  evidently  leading  up  to  the 
heights  of  Clouds'  Rest. 

This  is  a  point  which  every  tourist  should  visit.  The 
view  of  the  valley  from  its  summit  is  perhaps  not  so 
extensive  as  that  from  Sentinel  Dome,  or  so  grand  as 
that  from  the  still  loftier  summit  of  the  Half  Dome, 
but  it  affords  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  grand  Sierras. 
Never  before  have  I  seen  such  magnificence  of  moun 
tain,  or  looked  on  peaks  when  they  seemed  to  tower  so 
far  upward  into  the  infinite  deeps  of  the  sky. 

The  fields  of  snow  lay  white  and  dazzling  before  the 
vision,  and  the  far-off  sides  of  Mount  Clark— that  mighty 
obelisk  of  the  centuries— showed  to  us  the  shadow  of  its 
awful  crater— its  once  vast,  blazing  mouth  of  fire.  Over 
the  mighty  maze  of  peaks  and  forests  below  it,  it  rose 
gray  and  hoary — the  twin  brother  of  Time. 

Mountains  red,  gray  and  black  were  before  us.  Afar 
off  to  our  left  towered  Cathedral  Peak,  one  of  the  noblest 
landmarks  of  the  Sierras.  It  is  a  lofty  mass  of  rock 
"cut  square  down  on  all  sides  for  more  than  a  thousand 
feet,  and  having  at  its  southern  end  a  beautiful  cluster 
of  pinnacles  which  rise  several  hundred  feet  above  the 
main  body."  It  is  a  vast,  God-wrought  cathedral,  sub 
lime  in  all  its  proportions — a  mountain  temple,  a  taber 
nacle  of  the  upper  air.  Its  summit  is  at  least  2500  feet 
above  the  surrounding  plateau,  and  about  11,000  feet 
above  sea  level.  During  the  occasional  summer  storms 
of  the  Sierras  the  lightnings  play  about  its  crest  and 
hang  about  its  summit  like  the  Pillar  of  Fire, 

Unicorn  Peak,  with  its  horn-shaped  outline,  is  also 
distinctly  visible,  and  Mounts  Lyell  and  Dana  lift  their 
heads  13,000  feet  into  the  infinite  ether.  It  is  a  grand, 
illimitable,  alpen-like  picture  of  nameless  spires  and 
dome-like  masses,  of  towering  mountain  peaks— the 
Mont  Blancs  of  these  our  American  Alps. 

I  sat  down  on  a  gray  granite  rock  and  looked  over 
the  wide  wilderness  of  solitude.  Words  jarred  upon 
my  senses,  for  it  seemed  as  if  over  that  world  of  the 
upper  air,  brooding  in  its  awful,  frozen  silence,  was  the 
overshadowing  Presence  of  the  Infinite. 


205 


In  the  Y  one  mite. 


Two  weeks  before  our  visit  to  Clouds'  Rest  the  botanist 
of  our  party  had  pushed  out  alone  into  this  region  of 
solitude  and  grandeur.  He  left  our  camp  in  the  valley 
one  morning  with  his  blankets,  and  with  one  tin  plate 
and  cup,  a  tin  can  for  a  teapot,  a  knife  and  fork,  and 
provisions  enough  for  a  ten  days'  tramp  strapped  behind 
him  on  his  saddle.  Far  up  into  these  great  mountain 
byways  of  Nature  his  path  lay.  It  was  a  glorious  morn 
ing  when  he  moved  out  from  camp,  but  the  afternoon 
was  half  sunshine  and  half  storm.  The  angry  echo  of 
the  thunders  rolled  along  the  heights,  and  the  vivid  flash 
of  the  lightnings  which  played  among  the  mountain 
peaks  sent  its  reflection  into  the  valley  below.  The  rain 
came  down  on  the  heights  above  the  Yosemite  as  if  Na 
ture  was  bent  on  pelting  the  lonely  explorer  of  her  secret 
domains. 

But  Nature  does  not  frown  long  in  this  land  of  sun 
shine.  Summer  storms  are  not  frequent  in  the  Sierra 
regions.  Nature  takes  kindly  to  her  children  here,  and 
sends  out  such  warm,  sunny  welcome  that  her  lovers  turn 
eagerly  to  her  embrace.  After  one  of  these  rare  storms 
all  the  world  seems  wakening  to  a  fresh  youth. 

The  botanist  did  ten  days  of  hard  work.  Mountains 
were  no  barrier  to  his  footsteps.  He  scaled  the  rounded 
side  of  the  Half  Dome,  and  gathered  floral  treasures 
from  its  lofty  crown;  then  he  pushed  out  alone  for  his 
ten  days'  journey  into  the  wilderness,  into  the  very  birth 
place  of  the  ancient  glaciers.  Nature  in  her  untamed 
majesty  filled  all  that  mountain  world.  There  were  vast, 
jagged  mountains  at  whose  feet  slept  shimmering  lake 
lets;  yawning  chasms  ploughed  by  mighty  glaciers;  green 
and  shining  valleys,  and  wandering  waves  of  golden  sum 
mer  air;  miniature  seas,  round  whose  quiet  isles  the 
dimpling  waves  broke  in  the  light,  musical  cadences  of 
eternal  song;  there  was  the  deep  azure  of  the  cloudless 
skies,  and  the  velvety  texture  of  emerald  meadows. 
There  was  wondrous  loveliness  and  harmony  of  color — 
the  blue  of  the  firmament,  the  gray  granite  of  the 
mountain  walls;  the  expanse  of  piney  forests,  of  carved 
and  rocky  domes  and  peaks,  with  the  vast,  impenetrable 
curtain  of  the  higher  ranges. 

The  shining,  dazzling  glory  of  the  snow-fields  was  be 
fore  us,  and  the  awful  frozen  terror  of  the  living  glaciers. 
Added  to  all  was  the  mighty  leap  of  cascades,  and  bare 
volcanic  stretches,  where  Nature,  even  now,  sits  frowning 
as  if  meditating  on  her  fiery  past,  with  its  molten  floods 
and  surging  lava  tides.  Gray,  glistening  mountains  of 
granite  are  intermingled  with  those  of  red  or  black,  and 
rocky  ramparts  rise  like  crumbling  ruins,  tinted  and 
stained  and  colored  as  by  the  brush  of  the  Almighty 
Painter. 

The  botanist  macle  the  ascent  of  Mounts  Lyell  and 
Dana,  those  overshadowing  peaks,  both  of  which  rise  over 
13,000  feet  above  sea-level.  He  gathered  rare  and  in 
teresting  plants,  some  of  which  are  scarcely  known  to 
botany;  among  them  the  loveliest  tufts  of  bloom  from 
the  highest  spurs  of  Lyell,  13,217  feet  above  the  ocean 
world. 


On  the  summit  of  Mount  Dana  were  found  the  true 
dwarfed  alpine  plants,  which  are  rarely  collected,  for 
their  day  is  short,  their  blossoming  beauty  lasting 
scarcely  more  than  an  hour. 

Charming  white  columbines  were  among  the  treasures 
found — children  of  the  snowy  wilds.  We  took  them,  at 
first,  to  be  a  species  of  the  famed  alpine  edelweiss,  and 
round  them  we  wove  the  pretty  romance  which  belongs 
to  that  flower.  They  are  just  as  charming  and  sweet, 
any  way,  and  very  fair  in  their  pure  whiteness. 

Interesting  dwarfs  were  also  found,  of  the  Erigeron 
family — the  Tom  Thumbs  of  the  flower-kingdom — tiny 
little  treasures  with  parti-colored  eyes,  which  were  found 
peeping  out  from  the  red  and  green-striped  rocks, 
"forming,"  said  the  botanist,  "the  circling  tiaras  of 
that  grand  peak  dominating  all  from  Shasta  to  Whitney." 

There  are  mighty,  swift  rolling  rivers  which  have  their 
source  in  these  regions.  The  snows  feed  them  through 
the  centuries.  Away  up  amid  the  wild,  sunny  beauty  of 
these  mountain  streams,  the  ousel  and  the  robin  sing  and 
add  their  share  to  the  sweet  enchantment. 

The  Douglas  squirrel  is  at  home  here,  too.  These 
grand  Sierra  forests  are  his  harvest  field,  his  workshop 
and  his  playground.  He  is  at  home  in  the  forest  lines 
that  skirt  the  higher  Californian  Alps,  as  well  as  farther 
down  in  the  lower  forest  zones.  We  came  across  the 
lively,  genial  little  fellow  many  a  time  in  our  wander 
ings,  and  watched  his  cunning  ways  with  a  sense  of  full 
delight.  His  presence  made  the  woods  instinct  with 
motion  and  happy  life.  He  robbed  the  old  forests  of 
silence,  and  stirred  all  the  stillness  with  the  twinkle  of 
his  nimble  feet.  We  found  him  somewhat  cautious,  but 
not  particularly  timid.  He  had  his  share  of  curiosity, 
and  was  always  ready  to  investigate  the  character  of 
such  intruders  as  ourselves.  His  approaches  were  grad 
ual,  and  he  would  study  us  first  from  some  safe  over 
hanging  limb  before  he  ventured  on  any  nearer  advances. 
He  is  as  swift  and  breezy  as  the  wind,  and  as  free  from 
dyspeptic  moodiness  as  the  sunshine.  He  is  about  four 
teen  inches  in  length  from  his  head  to  the  tip  of  his 
silvery  tail.  He  kept  us  company  during  our  day  and 
night  in  the  silver-fir  forest  on  Eagle  Peak.  From  tree 
to  tree  he  rushed  like  a  flash  of  winggd  silver,  and  his 
bright,  sharp  eyes  looked  down  on  us  like  so  many 
shining  dots  amid  the  piney  greens  and  silvered  firs. 
We  found  him  a  wonderfully  early  riser,  stirring  all  the 
breezy  morning  with  his  energy.  The  cones  that  he 
gathered  for  his  breakfast  began  to  fall  soon  after 
dawn,  and  his  brave  little  voice  was  full  of  cheerfulness. 
It  was  a  delightful  reveille,  and  all  our  senses  were 
awake  when  it  was  sounded.  No  doubt  he  has  a  won 
derful  work  to  do  in  the  economy  of  Nature  in  replant 
ing  and  keeping  alive  these  grand  coniferous  forests. 
How  many  seeds  drop  from  his  little  paws !  He  pushes 
them  into  curing  holes,  and  the  wind  covers  them,  and 
the  rain  and  the  sunshine  find  them.  Thus  do  these 
agencies  all  work  together. 

One  of  the  beauties  of  our  out-of-door  summer  life 
was  the  insight  which  it  gave  us  into  the  wonderful  har 
monies  of  Nature.  We  saw  how,  hand  in  hand,  animate 


206 


Little  Yose mite—  "Some  Injuns." 


and  inanimate  Nature  wrought  in  the  great  work  of 
development  and  change.  We  saw  God  in  all  things, 
and  the  trace  of  infinite  law  in  the  dropping  of  a  leaf, 
the  sweep  of  the  wind,  and  in  the  daily  life  of  this 
happy  little  forester. 

The  closer  we  came  to  Nature  the  more  clearly  did 
we  see  how  full  and  wonderful  the  revelations  which 
she  holds  and  invites  us  to  read. 

I  sat  a  long  time  enthroned  on  my  granite  rock  in 
that  upper  kingdom  of  air.  I  was  loath  to  turn  away 
from  the  grand,  outstretching  vista,  but  the  sun  had 
rushed  rejoicingly  on  through  his  great  blue,  silent  path 
way  towards  the  west,  and  had  dropped  far  down  from 
the  zenith.  So  we  turned  our  faces  campward,  crossing 
the  rippling  brook  as  we  reached  the  base  of  Clouds' 
Rest,  and  dipping  into  the  soft  yielding  grasses,  then 
into  the  pathway  under  the  fragrant  cedars.  It  was  a 
sinuous  way,  but  every  curve  we  rounded  disclosed  new 
beauties. 

Some  of  the  old  Titanic  deities  must  have  wrought 
many  of  the  wonders  amid  the  rocks  which  we  passed. 
Quaint  yet  glorious  architecture  it  was  of  temples  and 
forums  and  wide-sweeping  amphitheaters,  of  carved  pul 
pits  and  altars  along  the  pure  silver  aisles  of  the  brooks. 
The  wind  swept  through  the  cathedral  arches  of  the 
cedars,  and  chimed  in  with  the  musical  symphonies  of  the 
running  waters. 

We  walked  a  little  distance  so  as  to  catch  the  low, 
sweet  undertones  of  the  pretty  stream,  stooping  down, 
now  and  then,  to  dip  up  with  our  leaf-formed  cups  the 
cold  crystal  water. 

Going  down  the  steep,  rocky  trail  to  the  Little  Yo- 
semite,  to  the  left  of  us  was  an  Indian  with  a  light, 
swift-footed  pony.  In  some  way  the  pony  made  a  mis 
step,  and  the  Indian  shot  from  him  like  an  arrow.  The 
pony  fell,  and,  struggling  to  regain  his  footing,  he  rolled 
down  the  rocky  steep,  over  and  over  into  the  yawning 
chasm.  The  Indian  was  unharmed,  but  his  poor  beast 
lay  a  quivering,  bleeding  mass  down  in  the  valley  below. 
All  our  way  down,  after  leaving  the  base  of  Clouds' 
Rest,  we  noticed  the  print  of  moccasined  feet — prints 
which  had  been  made  since  we  had  passed  over  the  trail 
in  the  morning. 

It  was  sunset  when  we  were  again  within  the  walls  of 
the  Little  Yosemite,  and  here  we  saw  a  party  of  Indians 
camped  on  a  large  rock  by  the  river.  They  had  been 
deer-hunting,  and  were  just  in  over  the  Mono  trail. 
They  held  up  to  our  view,  with  an  air  of  triumph,  a 
pair  of  large,  splendid,  branching  antlers. 

The  Indians  were  dressed  in  a  semi-civilized  fashion, 
the  men  in  red  flannel  shirts  and  rude  trousers  made  of 
skins  of  sage-brush  rabbits,  and  the  bronzed  squaws  in 
loose-fitting  garments,  soiled  and  dirty  to  such  a  degree 
it  was  impossible  to  determine  their  original  color  and 
the  texture  of  their  skins.  There  were  fifteen  or  twenty 
of  them.  They  had  built  their  campfire  upon  the  large 
flat  rock,  and  were  busy  in  cutting  up  the  deer  and 
hanging  its  flesh  upon  the  branches  of  trees  to  l>e  con 
verted  into  "jerk"  by  the  sun  and  air. 


There  was  one  great  broad-shouldered,  brawny-armed 
head  man  among  them,  with  a  face  as  savage  as  Sitting 
Bull's.  It  would  not  have  surprised  me  to  hear  him  roar 
like  an  angry  bull  of  Bashan  in  tones  loud  enough  to 
startle  the  echoes  on  every  crag  and  peak.  But  he  only 
glared  at  us  in  stolid,  savage  silence. 

We  called  out  " Adlos"  as  we  left  them,  and  they 
responded  in  plain,  familiar  English,  "Good-by." 

At  this  point  the  Merced  moves  on  with  a  gentle, 
gliding  motion,  giving  out  only  a  soft,  murmuring  whis 
per.  The  sunbeams  fall  caressingly  into  its  embrace, 
flowers  grow  upon  its  banks,  and  the  trees  are  mirrored 
in  its  crystal  deeps.  But  farther  on  it  breaks  into  the 
trilling  notes  of  rapids,  the  laughter  of  flashing  cas 
cades,  and  the  Dooming  anthems  of  mighty  waterfalls. 
Its  life  is  varied,  yet  full  of  romance.  It  is  placid  and 
still  among  the  smooth  meadow  levels,  but  riotous  and 
noisy  as  a  bacchanal  when  it  rushes  down  to  mate  with 
the  gray-brown  boulders.  Still  farther  on  it  drops  again 
into  its  quiet  ways,  and  goes  on  crooning  its  low-voiced 
melody. 

I  was  glad  to  see  the  ugly  faces  of  the  Monos  fade 
out  from  my  sight.  Once  I  fancied  that  I  heard  their 
cat-like  tread  behind  me,  but  it  was  only  the  little,  swift- 
footed  Douglas  squirrel  that  made  a  quick  rush  across 
the  path. 

It  was  sunset  when  we  reached  the  summit  of  Nevada 
Falls.  Old  Sol  had  slipped  from  sight  behind  the  might} 
turrets  of  the  mountains,  but  the  deep  blue  was  winged 
with  golden  clouds,  hanging  like  shining  crowns  alx)ve 
the  beetling  cliffs,  or  floating  in  silence  through  the  azure 
air.  There  was  a  rosy  glow  on  every  mountain  top, 
while  purple  shadows  lay  far  down  in  the  valley,  two 
thousand  feet  below  us. 

Moving  silently  on,  enjoying  the  beauty  of  the  hour, 
we  were  startled  by  an  unusual  sound — a  dull,  muffled 
rumble,  followed  by  a  noise  like  the  crunching  of  an 
earthquake,  and  far  away  over  the  canons'  cliffs  we 
saw  the  descent  of  might}'  boulders,  the  wild  leap  of  a 
gigantic  avalanche,  whose  furious  rush  made  the  air  gray 
with  clouds  of  granite  dust. 

About  half  a  mile  below  the  base  of  the  Nevada  Falls 
is  Snow's  "La  Casa  Nevada."  It  is  built  on  a  rocky 
plateau  between  the  Vernal  Falls  and  Nevada  Falls.  It 
is  a  lovely  mountain  house  for  tourists  seeking  the  heart 
of  Nature's  wilderness. 

Some  years  ago  an  earthquake  shook  the  heights  about 
it,  and  the  rocks,  dust  and  stones  that  it  loosened  fell 
like  hail  and  mist  about  the  house,  almost  blinding  the 
guests,  who,  unsuspecting,  sat  at  the  table  in  the  moun 
tain-girt  castle. 

Yet  one  would  think  that  its  foundations  could  never 
be  stirred,  for  they  are  of  solid  granite,  white  and  smooth, 
stretching  over  acres  of  space.  Even  the  river  here  has 
a  rocky  bed,  and  it  is  so  firm  that  the  waters,  with  their 
strongest  tides,  have  ploughed  in  it  scarce  a  single  fur- 
rov,-. 

A  little  below  Vernal  Falls  the  rock  was  pointed  out 
to  us  on  which  Lady  Franklin  sat,  on  her  visit  to  the 
falls,  and  sketched  the  grandeurs  of  the  magnificent  sur- 


207 


Other  Sketches  of  Travel 


roundings.  The  rock  stands  out  in  the  midst  of  the 
stream,  where  she  could  look  full  into  the  face  of  the 
cataract.  They  told  us  pleasant  stories  of  her  gentleness 
and  dignity,  and  her  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  the 
grandeur  of  Yosemite. 

Our  way  home  by  moonlight  through  the  dark  canons 
of  the  Merced  was  difficult.  I  happened  to  be  in  ad 
vance  and  the  trail  was  too  narrow  for  those  behind  me 
to  pass.  The  forest  was  so  dense  that,  in  places,  not  a 
ray  of  moonlight  pervaded  it,  and  so  dark  that  often 
not  a  trace  of  the  narrow  trail  was  visible;  but  faithful 
Dolly's  head  was  down  snuffing  the  stones,  and  her  un 
erring  instinct  led  us  safely  on,  past  towering  boulders 
and  broken  rocks,  into  open  meadow  lands,  where  the 
moonlight  paved  our  way,  and  the  river  sang  its  wel 
come.  A  hospitable  repast  awaited  us  at  Barnard's,  and 
we  reached  camp  about  10  o'clock,  not  sorry  to  find  rest 
after  our  ride  of  forty  miles  on  the  back  of  our  patient 
mules. 

And  so  ended  our  last  day  in  Yosemite — the  beautiful 
Ah-wah-nee  of  the  long  ago. 


OTHER  SKETCHES  OF  TRAVEL. 

FROM  ROSES  TO  SNOW. 

Roses  and  snow  are  not  usual  combinations  in  Nature, 
but  Southern  California,  the  land  of  marvelous  sur 
prise  and  sharp  contrasts,  where  eternal  Summer  sits 
within  her  vales  and  hills,  and  hoary  old  AVinter,  wrapped 
in  his  mantle  of  snow,  at  times  confronts  her  from  the 
mighty  mountain  summits,  where  he  has  his  throne,  often 
presents  it.  Grand  and  impressively  sublime  are  her 
lofty  mountain  heights,  some  of  them  rising  nearly 
14,000  feet  skyward,  piercing  the  shining  ether  like  God- 
built  pyramids,  almost  infinite  in  their  vastness.  The 
eternal  sunbeams  wrap  their  forms;  the  transparent  air 
enfolds  them,  and  the  mystic  etchings  of  ever-changing 
lights  and  shades  upon  their  sides  present  wonderful 
pictures  to  the  eye,  and  hold  the  vision  entranced  with 
their  beauty. 

With  the  first  heavy  winter  rains  snow  usually  falls 
upon  these  mountain  summits,  and  their  dazzling  white 
ness  shines  out  against  the  deep  blue  of  the  infinite 
skies  like  a  crown  of  glory.  But  while  the  snows  fall 
upon  their  alpine  crests,  the  life-giving  rains  descend 
upon  the  hills  and  valleys  at  their  base.  They  come 
like  the  harbingers  of  a  resurrection  day.  The  brown 
vales  and  hillsides  feel  the  throb  of  a  new  life.  As  the 
storm  passes,  the  unclouded  sun  looks  forth  and  the 
earth  feels  the  warm  thrill  of  his  touch.  Roots  at  once 
are  astir.  The  very  air  seems  trembling  with  the  sense 
of  new  life  and  .beauty.  It  is  laden  with  the  nursing 
breath  of  bloom  and  sweetness.  One  feels  the  touch  of 
universal  life  in  the  atmosphere  he  breathes.  Summer 
looks  out  from  the  eyes  of  December  and  he  puts  on 
his  most  gallant  ways,  decks  himself  with  roses,  strews 
flowers  along  his  path,  clothes  himself  with  emerald 
grasses  and  pours  out  his  free  libations  of  sunshine 
until  the  very  Earth  laughs  as  if  it  were  June. 


And  all  Nature  is  in  sympathy  with  this  new  life. 
The  birds  wake  to  glorious  jubilees  of  happy  song;  the 
bees  give  forth  a  sound  of  murmurous  gladness ;  the  flies 
buzz  in  an  undertone  of  delight;  the  cricket's  chirp  is 
heard;  the  rivers  leap  upon  their  beds  and  send  forth  a 
volume  of  crystal  cadences,  and  on  the  heights  the  voice 
of  the  waterfall  sounds  forth  like  a  grand  organ  peal 
amid  the  echoing  rocks.  The  newcomer  from  the  East 
begins  to  question  the  reliability  of  the  almanac  as  day 
by  day  the  earth  grows  greener  and  the  swelling  buds  of 
flowers  unfold.  With  the  opening  of  the  new  year  the 
earth  is  garmented  like  June.  The  skies  are  infinitely 
clear,  and  in  them  unknown  depths  are  mirrored.  The 
air  is  filled  with  the  perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers. 
The  rhythm  of  gladness  is  in  everything.  It  is  a  new 
world  that  the  eastern  dweller  sees;  fairer,  more  fully 
alive  than  any  that  he  finds  upon  the  Atlantic  borders, 
even  in  midsummer.  He  fills  his  lungs  with  the  pure, 
delicious  air,  and  his  delighted  nostrils  with  the  perfume 
of  flowers.  He  sees  the  flash  of  bright  birds  among  the 
trees.  Not  the  robin  and  mocking-bird  alone  sing  for 
him.  The  Baltimore  oriole  in  his  gay  colors  is  here,  the 
most  charming  of  feathered  songsters,  and  the  gay  little 
linnet  warbles  forth  his  gladness  in  the  most  enlivening 
tones.  The  robin  is  found  among  the  hills  in  company 
with  the  meadow-lark,  singing  as  if  inspired  by  the  blue 
skies  above  them  and  the  beauty  in  the  world  around. 

The  mocking-bird  revels  amid  our  trees  and  orchards. 
Not  content  to  sing  by  day  alone,  he  sometimes  breaks  into 
the  most  ravishing  notes  under  the  midnight  stars.  His 
voice  often  comes  to  us  through  the  open  window  on  the 
breath  of  the  orange  perfume  and  the  scent  of  the  roses. 
It  is  like  the  mingling  of  enchantments,  and  the  weary, 
frozen  visitor  from  the  Land  of  Snow  is  wont  to  feel 
that  amid  such  surroundings  simply  to  be  is  bliss,  and  he 
breathes  long,  full  breaths  of  content,  and  loses  himself 
in  quiet  restfulness. 

But  some  are  there  with  whom  perfect  content  any 
where  is  an  unknown  quantity,  and  they  think  that  for  a 
few  days,  at  least,  they  would  like  to  breathe  the  old 
winter  atmosphere  again.  Or,  perhaps,  they  are  at 
tracted  by  the  grandeur  of  our  Mother  Mountains,  whose 
lofty  heights  beckon  to  them  and  allure.  It  is  a  pleasure 
excursion  that  they  seek,  and  none  more  delightful  can 
be  had  than  the  trip  "From  Roses  to  Snow."  To  make 
this  there  are  many  points  in  our  grand  mountain  range 
that  invite  us.  If  we  wish  to  go  to  Mount  Lowe  or  Echo 
Mountain  we  may  set  out  at  almost  any  hour  of  the  day 
from  the  blooming  valleys.  Starting  from  Los  Angeles 
we  are  borne  in  the  swift-moving  electric  car  past  lovely 
homes  and  green  fields  and  gardens,  bright  with  an  in 
finite  variety  of  flowers,  past  many  a  home  whose  sides 
and  roof  are  hidden  by  climbing  roses  and  buried  in  the 
glowing  wealth  of  blossoms  which  they  yield. 

The  sinuous  course  which  the  mountain  road  thither 
pursues  opens  wonderful  pictures  to  the  vision.  Down 
mighty  gorges,  3000  feet  deep,  looking  vast  as  if  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  had  been  rent  asunder,  one  may  gaze 
as  if  from  the  edge  of  another  sphere.  And  there  may  be 
seen  the  countless  peaks  and  spurs  of  this  upper  moun- 


208 


£7l*RAHj 

Of   THE 

/ERSITYl 

*,  OF 


In   War-Times. 


tain  world,  white  in  Winter's  embrace.  Mount  Lowe  lifts 
itself  to  the  height  of  6000  feet,  and  the  ascent  beyond 
this  line  of  road  is  easily  made  in  the  saddle. 

"From  roses  to  snow"  is  like  a  dream  trip,  and  one, 
in  every  direction,  filled  with  the  most  romantic  beauty. 
It  may  be  made  to  other  points  in  our  mountain  realm. 
Wilson's  Peak,  6000  feet  above  the  sea  level,  with  its 
enchanting  views,  beckons  to  the  lover  of  Nature,  and 
tliere  one  may  be  comfortably  housed  and  fed  and  enjoy 
the  calm  repose  and  sublime  wonders  of  the  scene  about 
him.  Peak  rising  above  peak,  pine-clad  and  snow- 
mantled,  fill  the  tireless  vision,  and  far  below  lies  Summer 
on  the  breast  of  the  green  and  flower-gemmed  Earth. 
Away  back,  amid  the  eternal  fastnesses  of  these  mighty 
peaks,  rises  "Old  Baldy,"  king  of  this  mountain  world, 
upon  whose  Titan  shoulders  the  mantle  of  Winter  lingers 
till  May's  soft  breezes  blow  and  the  summer  of  the  al 
manac  is  here.  For  half  the  year  this  mountain  giant 
beckons  one  "  from  roses  to  snow,"  while  the  ethereal 
splendor  of  his  snow-capped  form  flashes  down  upon  the 
valleys  where  the  roses  pave  the  pathway  for  our  feet 
with  their  wealth  of  color  and  perfume  from  January 
to  December. 


IX  WAR-TIMES. 

It  was  in  the  second  year  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion 
that  I  took  a  government  steamer  at  Marietta,  Ohio,  and 
steamed  down  the  Ohio  River  to  Gallipolis,  and  from 
there  up  the  picturesque  Kanawha  to  Charleston,  West 
Virginia.  That  was  a  rebel  town,  and  the  home  of  many 
old  and  aristocratic  Virginia  families,  who  were  not 
slow  to  show  their  hatred,  as  far  as  they  dared,  to 
our  Union  soldiers.  It  is  a  small  city,  right  on  the 
banks  of  the  broad  river,  beyond  which,  upon  the  high 
hills  overlooking  the  stream,  was,  at  that  time,  a  large 
fort  built  by  our  soldiers,  and  commanding  the  river 
as  well  as  other  approaches  to  the  town.  Later  I 
traversed  the  whole  length  of  this  valley  above  Charleston 
in  a  government  ambulance.  There  was  a  Union  officer 
and  his  wife  who  journeyed  with  me,  and  whose  desti 
nation,  like  my  own,  was  Fayette  Courthouse,  a  little 
town  picturesquely  situated  in  the  wild  and  hilly  region 
of  the  New  River. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  trip  up  the  valley,  which,  at 
that  season  of  the  year,  is  interesting.  The  Kanawha 
valley  at  that  time  was  not  thickly  settled,  but  still 
we  passed  many  homes  on  our  way,  some  of  them 
small  and  unpretentious,  and  others  fine,  large,  aristo 
cratic  mansions,  surrounded  by  trees  and  flowers.  I 
remember  Cannelton,  a  little  mining  town,  composed 
almost  entirely  of  the  humble  cabins  of  the  miners,  which 
were  built  along  the  roadside,  and  upon  the  rocky  cliffs 
and  mountain  sides.  It  was  a  miserable,  dirty  little 
place,  some  miles  below  the  junction  of  the  Kanawha 
and  Gauley  rivers,  full  of  smoke  and  dust,  and  in  the 
evening  lit  with  the  glare  of  torches.  The  miners  were 
about  with  black  and  smutty  faces,  and  their  neglected- 
looking  wives  and  children  stood  in  the  doorways  as 
we  drove  by,  and  altogether  I  was  glad  to  pass  out  of 


sight  of  the  place.  The  hills  beyond  the  village  looked 
very  beautiful,  lighted  up  with  the  warm  glow  of  the 
sunshine,  and  the  river  ran  cool  and  clear  to  our  right. 
We  stopped  for  the  night  at  the  home  of  Mrs.  Tompkins, 
an  aunt  of  General  Grant,  and  an  aristocratic  rebel.  It 
was  a  fine  old  mansion  where  she  lived,  and  furnished 
in  a  most  comfortable  way.  The  lady  was  all  alone 
with  her  daughter  and  her  old  colored  servants.  She 
had  two  sons,  but  they  were  both  away  in  the  rebel  army. 
I  had  a  room  all  to  myself,  a  large,  elegantly-furnished 
chamber,  in  which  was  a  big  mahogany  bedstead  with 
its  satin-lined  canopy,  large  arm  chairs,  richly  uphol 
stered,  together  with  other  necessary  furniture.  I  remem 
ber  feeling  a  little  timid  and  wondering  what  we  should 
do  if  we  were  surprised  by  rebel  bushwhackers  before 
morning.  I  noticed  a  recess  at  the  head  of  my  bed 
before  which  were  some  heavy  curtains.  Thinking  there 
might  be  a  door  there  which  I  might  wish  to  fasten,  I 
lifted  the  curtains,  and  there  I  found  a  large  number 
of  rifles  stacked,  enough  for  me  to  make  a  brave  defense, 
I  thought,  if  they  were  only  loaded.  I  did  not  try 
them  to  see  if  they  were.  But  no  bushwhackers  dis 
turbed  us,  and  we  woke  in  the  morning  to  find  the  sun 
shining  gloriously.  We  sat  down  to  a  palatable  breakfast 
of  broiled  chicken,  fried  potatoes,  corn  muffins,  waffles 
and  hot  coffee,  and  soon  after  set  out  on  our  way  up 
the  valley. 

A  short  ride  brought  us  to  the  ruins  of  a  pretty 
little  church  which  had  been  destroyed  since  the  war 
began,  and  had  been  built  by  Mrs.  Tompkins.  Nothing 
was  left  of  it  but  broken  arches  and  blackened  walls, 
which  even  the  cheerful  morning  sunshine  could  not 
brighten. 

Our  troops  had  possession  of  the  valley,  so  we  rode 
along  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  security,  enjoying  the 
wild  and  rugged  scenery,  crossing  the  Kanawha  just 
below  the  falls  in  a  ferryboat,  and  reaching  Fayette 
Courthouse  about  sunset.  From  Kanawha  Falls  to  Fay 
ette  and  beyond  is  a  rugged  region  of  country,  with 
many  hills  and  quiet  valleys,  like  recesses,  among  which 
are  the  simple  homes  of  the  farmers  with  now  and  then 
a  fine  house  owned  by  some  rich  Virginian,  who  in  those 
days  was  hardly  ever  found  to  be  a  friend  to  the  Union. 
Among  the  mountains  were  the  rude  cabins  of  the  moun 
taineers.  They  were  built  mostly  of  logs,  in  lonely 
places,  sometimes  where  no  roads  were  found  running 
near  them,  but  only  narrow  bridle  paths,  over  which  it 
would  be  impossible  for  a  wagon  to  pass.  It  was  a 
very  primitive  class  of  people  that  we  found  in  these 
homes.  A  great  many  of  them  had  never  seen  a  city 
or  a  large  town;  they  had  never  seen  a  railroad  or  a 
steamboat,  an  omnibus  or  a  stage-coach;  had  never  been 
inside  of  a  hotel;  had  never  heard  the  sound  of  a  church 
bell,  nor  the  music  of  a  piano  or  organ.  One  of  them 
said  to  me  one  day:  "If  the  war  ever  lets  up,  I  'low 
I'll  git  down  to  Charleston  to  see  one  of  them  steam 
critters  on  the  river" — meaning  a  steamboat.  They 
dressed  in  plain  homespun  clothes,  ate  pork  and  corn 
pone,  kept  chickens  and  pigs,  and  there  was  always  a 
whole  army  of  cats  and  dogs  about  the  place. 


209 


In  War -Times. 


In  the  cabins  were  large,  old-fashioned  fireplaces,  where 
the  fire  was  never  allowed  to  go  out  upon  the  hearth 
either  in  summer  or  winter.  A  good  many  of  them  had 
never  seen  a  match,  and  being  without  matches  it  was 
their  habit  to  cover  up  the  coals  every  night  with  ashes, 
and  in  the  morning  it  was  only  necessary  to  rake  open 
the  little  pile,  and  there  the  coals  were  ready  to  be 
fanned  into  a  blaze  as  soon  as  the  kindlings  were  laid 
on.  Wood  was  plenty,  for  there  were  miles  on  miles 
of  forests,  and  the  trees  were  cut  down  and  logs  were 
chopped  the  right  length  for  the  fireplace,  and  when 
green  they  burned  and  sputtered  slowly,  not  throwing 
out  a  great  amount  of  heat,  but  giving  to  the  big,  bare 
rooms  a  more  cheerful  look  than  they  would  otherwise 
have  possessed. 

Twenty-three  years  ago  I  spent  a  few  weeks  in  this 
region  of  West  Virginia  in  the  upper  part  of  the 
Kanawha  Valley  and  along  the  borders  of  New  River. 
I  remember  the  rude  little  cabins,  with  their  bare, 
unpainted  floors,  their  plain,  pine  tables,  split-bottom 
chairs  and  broad,  open  fireplaces,  where  the  huge  logs 
were  piled,  and  the  cat  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  hearth, 
and  the  dogs  stretched  themselves  upon  the  other  side 
with  their  noses  upon  their  forepaws,  and  outside  the 
hens  cackled,  the  cocks  crew,  and  the  pigs  squealed  in 
lively  chorus.  A  brigade  of  Union  soldiers  had  gone 
into  winter  quarters  the  winter  before  at  Fayette,  and 
though  the  spring  and  summer  had  come  and  gone,  their 
white  tents  still  covered  a  large  space  just  outside  the 
little  town,  which  had  been  almost  entirely  deserted  by 
its  inhabitants,  who  were  mostly  rebels.  Only  a  few 
families  of  Unionists  were  left,  but  they  were  loyal- 
hearted  and  brave  and  willing  to  sacrifice  everything 
for  the  sake  of  the  country  they  loved.  But  in  the 
country  beyond  the  town  the  people  generally  had  not 
left  their  homes,  although  most  of  them  were  rebels. 


They  used  to  come  with  their  produce  twice  a  week  to 
the  outposts  of  our  army  and  receive  in  exchange  for 
it  money,  tea,  coffee,  tobacco,  etc. — supplies  that  they 
were  not  able  to  get  elsewhere.  They  were  not  allowed  to 
come  within  our  lines,  though  of  course  they  would  have 
been  glad  enough  could  they  have  done  so,  for  then  they 
would  have  been  able  to  carry  much  information  to  the 
enemy. 

Among  the  few  Union  families  who  lived  in  the  vicinity 

was  Mr.  F .     His  family  consisted  of  himself,  his 

wife  and  two  young  daughters,  about  sixteen  and  eighteen 
years  of  age.  The  autumn  had  come  again,  and  a  little 
party  of  Union  scouts  had  been  stationed  at  Boyer's 
Ferry,  a  few  miles  from  the  headquarters  of  the  brigade 
and  not  far  from  the  home  of  Mr.  F.  One  morning 
two  of  the  scouts  at  the  ferry  had  received  permission 
to  cross  the  river  on  a  foraging  expedition,  in  order  to 
obtain  some  supplies  for  the  camp.  They  climbed  the 
summit  of  the  hill  which  lay  beyond,  when  they  were 
discovered  by  a  party  of  rebel  soldiers  who  were 
approaching.  Knowing  Mr.  F.  to  be  a  firm  Unionist, 
the  rebels  supposed  that  the  scouts  would  flee  there  for 
safety.  So  they  at  once  surrounded  the  house,  under 
cover  of  the  woods,  determined  to  capture  them.  One 
of  these  brave  young  girls,  understanding  their  object 
ana  fearing  for  the  safety  of  the  scouts  at  the  ferry,  at 
once  determined  she  would  save  them.  Very  cautiously 
she  went  out  and  reconnoitered,  and  all  alone  made  her 
way  beyond  their  lines.  Down  over  the  lonely  hill  passes, 
through  the  woods  where  the  rebels  might  be  hidden 
behind  the  sheltering  trees,  along  the  solitary  footpaths, 
till  she  came  in  sight  of  the  little  forest  camp  across 
the  stream,  she  made  her  way,  when  by  some  signal  she 
made  them  aware  of  their  danger,  and  they  set  out  at 
once  in  pursuit  of  the  rebels.  The  rebels,  perhaps  aware 
of  their  movements,  made  their  escape. 


210 


EDITORIAL  'WRITINGS. 


BESIDES  her  favorite  work  as  a  poet  and 
descriptive  writer,  with  a  broad,  graphic 
and  luminous  style,  Mrs.  Otis  was  an 
editorial  writer  of  recognized  cleverness,  strength 
and  beauty.  In  the  course  of  her  long  alliance 
with  The  Times  —  a  connection  terminated  only 
by  death  —  she  contributed  very  many  columns  to 
its  editorial  pages.  During  later  years  she  wrote 
much  for  the  editorial  page  of  the  Illustrated 
Sunday  Magazine,  and  always  with  interest  and 
benefit  to  its  readers.  From  a  large  number  of 
such  contributions  the  following  are  reproduced 
here.  The  range  of  the  subjects  treated  further 
shows  the  breadth,  versatility  and  beauty  of  her 
prose  style. 


THE  GARDEN-SPOT  OF  AMERICAN 
FREEDOM.* 

The  clear  skies  of  June  are  overhead;  the  glory  of  the 
sunshine  fills  the  air;  the  land  is  full  of  blossoms  and 
of  fragrance;  fruits  are  ripening,  harvests  are  being 
gathered;  the  longest  days  of  the  year  have  come;  it  is 
Summer  in  California. 

But  all  which  this  implies  is  not  understood  by  those 
in  other  sections  of  this  great  land  of  ours.  Summer 
here  is  something  so  widely  different  from  this  season 
in  other  parts  of  the  country  that  one  must  come  to 
know  it  through  experience  to  fully  appreciate  its 
charms. 

The  Holy  Land,  it  is  claimed,  has  much  of  climatic 
resemblance  to  Southern  California,  and  there  God 
planted  His  chosen  people  and  nurtured  them  until  they 
attained  national  greatness  and  power,  and  there  they 
would  have  continued  to  remain  had  they  not  forsaken 
Him  and  walked  in  all  the  ways  of  the  idolatrous  na 
tions  He  had  cast  out  before  them. 

Palestine  was  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  a 
land  bearing  goodly  harvests  of  grain;  a  land  of  the 
vine  and  fig,  of  stately  cedars,  and  of  bloom  and  fra 
grance.  And  California  is  such  a  land.  Here  the  silver 
green  of  the  olive  leaves  shimmers  in  the  sunshine,  the 
vines  grow  heavy  with  their  rich  clusters  of  grapes;  the 
fig-tree  is  laden  with  its  ripening  fruit;  the  bee  ranchos 
are  full  of  honey,  and  abundance  of  milk  is  yielded  by 
the  thousands  of  kine  within  our  fields.  Here  the  cedar 
grows  tall  and  stately  as  the  cedars  of  Lebanon,  and  the 
land  is  one  to  delight  the  soul  of  man  with  its  abundance. 

And  it  has  other  charms.  Xo  sultry  summer  heat  is 
ours  to  contend  with.  We  are  favored  all  the  summer 
with  cool,  life-giving  breezes  from  the  world's  greatest 
sea;  we  fear  no  sudden  storm  or  tempest;  no  death- 
dealing  cyclone;  no  life-destroying  thunderbolt.  It  is 
•June  28,  1902. 


a  land  where  we  shall  grow  great  and  prosperous,  and 
where  men  should  find  that  elixir  of  health  and  longev 
ity  which  is  hidden  in  the  perpetual  life-giving  sunshine. 

California  is  by  no  means,  as  yet,  purely  Ameri 
can,  for  she  has  upwards  of  50,000  Spanish-speaking  resi 
dents;  but  the  rapid  influx  of  Americans  is  continually 
obliterating  the  old  Spanish  civilization  which  was 
planted  here  with  the  founding,  in  1769,  of  San  Diego, 
where  was  established  the  first  of  the  Spanish  missions. 
But  the  active  and  enterprising  Yankee  is  rapidly  taking 
possession  of  this  rich  and  fertile  Wonderland  of  the 
continent,  and  is  building  up  a  civilization  which  con 
tains  the  best  elements  of  our  modern  life.  It  is  alert, 
active,  progressive.  It  has  to  give  no  time  to  battling 
with  the  elements,  and  has  consequently  so  much  the  more 
leisure  for  solving  the  great  problems  of  the  age. 

And  here  Nature  continually  beckons  to  the  world  to 
come  hither  and  find  what  life  means  under  the  most 
favorable  conditions  of  existence.  It  is  difficult  to  esti 
mate  the  fullness  of  its  meaning  now,  but  the  future  will 
untold  it  in  the  better  type  of  advancement  and  attain 
ment  that  shall  be  achieved  here.  The  plans  of  Jehovah 
were  vast  when  he  builded  California,  reared  her  lofty 
mountain  ranges,  spread  out  her  vast  valleys,  bordered 
her  with  the  illimitable  sea,  and  made  her  fit  to  become 
the  garden-spot  of  American  freedom. 


CALIFORNIA.* 

"The  nation  back  of  us,  the  world  in  front,"  is  a 
saying  which  gives  us  an  idea  of  the  importance  of 
California.  It  is  no  longer  a  frontier  land  with  a  vast 
unpeopled  space  behind  it,  or  a  land  where  the  waters 
of  the  great  "half-world  sea"  break  on  silent  shores, 
and  "hear  no  sound  save  their  own  dashing,"  but  a  great 
and  growing  empire,  rapidly  unfolding  and  beckoning  to 
the  world. 

The  historic  Orient,  where  the  race  was  cradled,  is 
our  neighbor,  and  today,  when  we  can  flash  a  message 
around  the  world  in  twelve  minutes  of  time,  it  is  not 
so  far  off.  It  is  not  so  far  away  in  the  future  when 
we  with  telephonic  power  shall  be  able  to  hear  the  daily 
speech  of  that  ancient  East,  and  be  fully  in  touch  with 
its  daily  life.  With  the  new  scientific  discoveries  which 
this  century  will  yet  unfold  there  will  be  no  such  thing 
as  national  isolation,  for  the  world  will  clasp  hands 
across  the  seas  and  continents,  and  the  tide  of  progress 
will  roll  onward  as  never  before. 

And  California,  fronting  the  great  world,  and  keeping 
wide  ajar  her  Golden  Gate,  will  be  the  Mecca  of  the 
freedom-loving  future.  Here,  as  in  the  Canaan  of  old, 
grow  the  palm  and  the  cedar,  the  olive  and  the  fig, 
and  the  sunshine  pours  its  beams  over  a  land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey.  There  can  be  no  doubt  but  that 
a  marvelous  future  is  before  this  great  State.  .  .  . 
•November  8,  1903. 


211 


Editorial  Writings. 


OUR  PROUDEST  BOAST. 

The  greatest  modern  poem  of  humanity  is  the  Con 
stitution  of  the  United  States."  Regarded  as  such,  it 
is  the  great  epic  of  human  freedom,  its  tones  resonant 
with  hope  and  promise.  Its  promulgation  marked  a 
new  era  in  the  hopes  of  the  race,  and  the  doors  of  human 
captivity  and  bondage  swung  backward  to  let  in  the 
light  of  the  new  day  upon  the  world. 

Since  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  the  world  has  made  marvelous  advances  in  en 
lightenment  and  progress.  The  social  and  educational 
aspect  of  the  country  bears  today  scarcely  a  resemblance 
to  its  condition  at  that  period  of  its  early  history.  Un 
der  that  Constitution  there  has  been  a  great  broadening 
of  the  idea  of  liberty.  We  have  grasped  the  idea,  as  a 
nation,  that  liberty  means  perfect  freedom  of  action 
under  law,  that  law  is  necessary  to  liberty,  and  that 
there  is  a  vast  difference  between  lawlessness  and  free 
dom.  We  are  treading  far  higher  levels  today  than  we 
were  a  hundred  years  ago.  We  are  conscious  of  vaster 
possibilities.  Life  has  reached  out  in  numberless  new 
directions;  has  unfolded  to  nobler  ideas,  till  there  is 
scarcely  a  limit  to  its  scope.  We  have,  with  the  Consti 
tution  as  the  foundation,  been  building  upward  till  in 
all  the  history  of  the  race  no  such  structure  for  human 
happiness  was  ever  before  reared. 

But  the  work  which  we  have  to  do  now  is  to  guard 
that  structure,  and  to  protect  it  from  the  various  dan 
gers  which  threaten  its  destruction.  We  cannot  sit 
supinely  down,  content  with  the  work  that  we  have 
accomplished,  and  feel  that  freedom  is  secure  without 
further  vigilance  on  our  part.  It  was  never  truer  in  the 
world's  history  than  it  is  today  that  "eternal  vigilance 
is  the  price  of  liberty." 

A  sense  of  the  value  and  dignity  of  citizenship  should 
be  cultivated.  A  better  knowledge  of  public  affairs 
should  be  taught  to  the  rising  generation,  together  with 
the  principles  upon  which  the  government  is  based.  A 
higher  reverence  for  law  should  also  be  instilled  into  the 
public  mind,  and  a  greater  pride  in  the  achievements  of 
our  past.  In  this  way  a  deeper  love  of  country  may  be 
fostered,  and  the  time  may  come  when  the  proudest 
boast  of  men  may  be,  "  I  am  an  American  citizen." 

The  American  idea  is  the  idea  that  it  is  to  conquer 
the  world  for  freedom.  It  is  working  like  leaven  among 
the  Old  World  kingdoms.  It  is  lessening  the  tyranny  of 
thrones,  and  is  gradually  weakening  the  shackles  of  the 
enslaved  everywhere.  If  we  are  true  to  ourselves,  to  the 
principles  which  underlie  our  constitutional  rights 
and  liberties,  we  shall  yet  conquer  the  world  for  free 
dom.  Ours  will  be  a  bloodless  victory,  a  triumph  not  by 
the  force  of  arms,  but  by  the  might  and  power  of  undy 
ing  principles.  Afid  of  all  victories,  such  are  the  most 
enduring  and  the  grandest  in  their  result  to  the  race. 


OUR  SEMI-TROPIC  LAND.* 

November,  the  season  of  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  in 
other  sections  of  our  country,  has  dawned  upon  us  here. 
•November  2,  1902. 


But  it  comes,  not  with  the  warning  notes  of  decay,  the 
falling  leaf,  the  world  of  dead  blossoms,  the  chill  of 
frost  and  the  whisper  of  approaching  Winter.  There  is 
nothing  in  all  the  glorious  beauty  of  our  sun-filled  days 
to  suggest  the  departure  of  Summer,  or  the  coming  of 
hoary  Winter. 

The  attractions  of  Southern  California  are,  perhaps, 
more  fully  realized  at  this  season  than  at  any  other 
period  of  the  year  by  those  who  have  been  always  ac 
customed  to  the  changes  of  the  East  at  this  time,  when 
the  forests  are  bare,  the  first  flurries  of  snow  fall,  and 
one  is  compelled  to  breathe  the  air  of  furnace-heated 
rooms  and  to  look  out  upon  a  world  where  Nature  seems 
dead,  save  for  the  sunshine  which  seems  to  hold  no 
warmth-giving  power  and  no  suggestion  of  invigorating 
growth. 

But  how  different  is  everything  here!  The  year  holds 
no  days  more  beautiful  or  more  suggestive  of  growth 
than  our  late  Autumn  and  Winter  days.  With  the  first 
coming  of  the  Winter  rains  the  marvelous  transforma 
tion  begins.  The  skies  are  washed  free  from  stain,  and 
the  infinite  deeps  of  air  grow  vaster  and  more  gloriously 
sun-filled  and  clear.  At  the  caressing  touch  of  our  early 
Winter  showers  the  brown  hills  and  plains  grow  green 
with  the  swift-springing  grasses.  The  little  streams 
gurgle  along  their  way  and  unnumbered  flowers  begin 
to  unfold.  Soon  the  whole  earth  is  starred  with  blos 
soms;  the  trees,  washed  free  from  dust,  smile  in  fresh 
beauty,  the  air  is  filled  with  the  melody  of  birds  and 
the  swift  flutter  of  wings.  Like  winged  blossoms  the 
many-hued  butterflies  float  along  within  the  sunshine, 
bees  buzz  in  their  happy  flight,  the  little  ground  squirrel 
leaps  in  joyous  gladness,  and  everywhere  our  world  is 
filled  with  beauty  and  with  light. 

The  magical  charm  of  life  here  at  this  season  is  felt 
most  intensely  by  the  newcomer  from  colder  climes.  The 
conditions  of  life  are  all  so  different,  it  seems  as  if  the 
wonders  of  Enchantment  were  at  work  creating  some 
thing  vastly  more  entrancing  than  all  the  wonders  of 
Aladdin.  The  possibility  of  living  so  largely  out  of 
doors,  during  our  so-called  Winter,  warmed  by  the  per 
fect  sunshine,  fanned  by  gentle  breezes,  breathing  air 
filled  with  fragrance  and  perfume,  kept  in  doors  only  by 
occasional  rains,  affords  the  fullest  delight  to  the  invalid 
who  comes  here  in  search  of  health.  The  atmosphere  is 
full  of  life-giving  qualities.  There  are  instances  when 
people  far  gone  in  consumption  have  come  to  Southern 
California  and  lived  out  of  doors  during  the  day  and 
slept  in  their  tents  by  night,  until  they  finally  conquered 
that  dread  disease  and  were  fully  restored  to  health. 

One  of  the  great  secrets  of  the  healthfulness  of  our 
climate  lies  in  this  possibility  of  an  almost  continuous 
life  of  comfort  out  of  doors  throughout  the  year,  the 
escape  from  the  extremes  of  temperature,  both  of  heat 
and  of  cold,  from  the  daily  breathing,  during  the  winter, 
of  the  vitiated  air  of  furnace-heated  rooms,  which  are 
of  themselves  disease-breeding  and  enervating.  Life  at 
this  season  in  the  winter-locked  and  snow-mantled  East 
has  few  charms  to  offer  compared  with  what  may  be 


212 


The  Old 


found  in  Southern  California,  where  our  nearest  ap 
proach  to  cold  and  snow  is  upon  our  lofty  mountain 
heights,  uplifted  high  above  our  smiling  valleys,  above 
great  orange  orchards,  and  spreading  vineyards  in  the 
wide  valleys  where  eternal  summer  reigns  amid  ever- 
ripening  harvests  and  undying  bloom  and  fragrance.  And 
this  Land  of  the  Sun  forever  beckons  to  all  who  will  to 
come  hither. 

It  is  a  great  and  growing  empire,  with  a  future  be 
fore  which  the  old  East  will  dwindle.  The  strength,  the 
power  and  the  glory  of  future  civilization  will  flourish 
here,  and  we  shall  find  that  this  great  semi-tropical  West 
is  indeed,  as  it  has  been  so  aptly  designated,  "The  Right 
Hand  of  the  Continent." 


THE  VAST  SOUTHWEST. 

California  is  a  part  of  that  great  Southwest  which  lias 
been  for  a  long  period  so  little  known  and  so  incorrectly 
conceived  of  in  the  history  of  human  affairs.     It   is  an 
empire  in  itself,  vaster  in  extent  than  many  of  the  Old 
World's  most  powerful  kingdoms.     In  this  wide-reaching 
Southwest  "are  the  greatest  deserts  and  waste  places  in 
America,    and   side    by    side   with   them    are   the    richest 
farming  lands  in  America."     More  than  this  is  the  grand 
ly  sublime,  the  beautiful  and  picturesque  in  Nature,  and 
here  may  yet  be  found  the  future  schoolroom  of  the  He- 
public,  for  there  is  no  agency  so  powerful  in  the  forma 
tion  of  character  as  the  nature  of  our  environments.  The 
language  of  the  lofty  mountain   peak   is   very   different 
from  that  of  the  dead   level   of  the  plain,   and   the  ex 
panding,  prairie-like  distances  have  an  altogether  differ 
ent  alphabet  from  that  of  the  narrow,  hill-guarded  valley. 
Take   the   portion    of   that    which   is    denominated    the 
Southwest  which  lies  within  the  boundaries  of  California, 
and  you  have  a  section  of  country  that  cannot  be  equaled 
anywhere  on   this  broad   continent    for   diversity   of  soil 
and   productions,   for  grandeur  of  scenery  and  climatic 
charm.     We   talk   about   Alpine   scenery   and   the   gran 
deur   of   Switzerland,   and   yet    Switzerland,   with   all   her 
mountain  wonders,  has  only  four  peaks  above  13,000  feet 
high,  and  not  more  than  150  square  miles  which  are  over 
8000    feet   above  the  sea,   while   in   the   grand   mountain 
regions   of   California   there   are   numerous   peaks   above 
13,000   feet,  and  more  than  300  square  miles  which  are 
over  8000  feet  above  the  sea. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  marvelous  grandeur  of  world- 
building,  there  is  no  land  upon  this  globe  that  will  out 
rival  California,  and  this  fact  the  world  is  but  just  be 
ginning  to  appreciate,  and  to  acknowledge  that  there  is 
no  land  anywhere  that  is  better  worth  knowing.  It  is 
no  longer  regarded  as  a  land  of  sage-brush  and  desert 
wastes,  of  vast,  barren  reaches  and  desolate  mountains, 
but  a  land  that  beckons,  a  land  which  needs  but  the 
magic  touch  of  water  to  make  it  everywhere  bud  and 
blossom  like  the  rose. 

Speaking  of  the  great  Southwest  as  a  whole,  "which 
may  be  said  to  comprise  all  of  the  Territories  of  Ari 


zona  and  New  Mexico,  the  greater  portion  of  Texas, 
Southern  California  east  of  the  Coast  Range,  and  the 
western  half  of  Oklahoma,  including  the  'strip,' "  a  recent 
writer  in  the  Century  says: 

The  Southwest  is  peopled  with  the  very  best 
Americans,  segregated  by  the  eternal  law  of  evolu 
tionary  selection,  with  almost  no  substratum  of  the 
low-caste  European  foreigner  to  lower  tne  level 
of  civilization.  Of  course,  there  is  no  danger  from 
Indians,  negroes,  Mexicans,  or  Chinese,  because  there 
is  rarely  any  mixing  with  them  by  marriage,  as 
formerly.  With  such  a  start  and  such  a  commingling 
of  Americans  from  all  parts  of  the  Union,  the 
man  from  Boston  rubbing  elbows  with  the  Atlanta 
man,  and  Kansas  working  side  by  side  with  Mississip 
pi,  it  would  seem  that  the  region  Would  one  day  produce 
the  standard  American  type.  ...  So  the  South 
west  is  becoming  a  distinct  entity,  and  the  south- 
westerner  a  personage.  Character  is  here  building, 
with  the  promise  of  virgin  power  and  new  ideas  of 
statecraft,  in  economics,  in  agriculture.  Men  are  lay 
ing  deep  and  strong  the  foundations  of  an  immense 
future  population,  and  preparing  for  the  responsibil 
ities  which  that  population  will  entail. 

It  is  a  new,  a  broader  and  a  nobler  civilization  which 
will  be  the  product  of  this  great  Southwest  in  the  future; 
and  here  in  California,  where  all  things  conduce  to 
a  higher  standard  of  physical  health,  and  consequently 
of  mental  vigor,  we  may  look  to  see  ultimately  evolved 
a  richer  type  of  manhood,  a  higher  form  of  statesman 
ship,  and  a  great  and  splendid  commonwealth,  rich  in 
noblest  possibilities  for  the  future.  Step  by  step  is  Prov 
idence  paving  the  way  for  the  realization,  in  our  great 
Southwest,  of  the  highest  hopes  of  Freedom. 


THE  OLD  MISSIONS. 

The  old  missions  of  California  are  a  landmark  in  the 
history  of  the  State,  and   the  monument  of  its  earlier 
civilization.     While  the  Puritanism  of  the  East  was  sow 
ing  the  seeds  which  were  to  spring  up  bearing  the  fruits 
of  the  larger  religious   and  political   freedom  of  today, 
a    different    civilization    and    a    different    religious    faith 
were  struggling  to  gain   a   foothold  on  these  far  shores 
of  the   Occident.     With   difficulties   no  less  grave  to  en 
counter,   and   obstacles   no   less    formidable   to   overcome 
than    the    Pilgrims   of   the   Mayflower   had   to    face,   the 
church  Fathers,  those  bold  pioneers  of  the  Cross,  planted 
upon  these  sunset  shores,  as  the  centers  and  the  strong 
holds   of  their   faith,   the  old     missions     of     California. 
Linked  as  they  are  with  the  first  dawn  of  modern  civili 
zation  in  the  West,  monuments  of  struggles  and  priva 
tions,  of  untiring  religious  zeal  and  energy,  of  devotion 
and  self-sacrifice,  there  lingers  about  them  today  a   ro 
mantic  interest  such  as  centers  about  nothing  else  in  our 
midst  belonging  so  wholly  to  the  past.     But  these  ancient 
buildings   are   gradually    falling   to   decay.      Their   walls 
of  solid  masonry  are  crumbling,  and  the  ravages  of  time 
will,  in  a   few  years,  leave   no  trace  of  many  of  these 
historic    piles    beyond    ruined    walls    and    arches,    unless 
measures  are  taken  for  their  repair. 


213 


Editorial  Writings. 


Among  all  of  these  old  missions  that  at  Santa  Barbara 
is  perhaps  the  best  preserved.  In  its  quaint  Moorish 
style  of  architecture,  with  its  square,  white  towers,  in 
which  swing  the  bells  brought  more  than  a  century  ago 
from  Spain,  it  stands  outlined  against  the  hills,  one  of 
the  most  prominent  features  of  the  landscape. 

The  idea  of  preserving  for  the  eye  of  future  genera 
tions  these  old  mission  buildings  was  conceived  some 
years  ago  by  the  late  Henry  C.  Ford,  formerly  a  prom 
inent  artist  of  Santa  Barbara.  He  visited  all  the  old 
missions  in  the  State  and  sketched  them  on  the  spot,  and 
where  they  were  fallen  into  decay,  by  reference  to  early 
pictures,  he,  by  the  magic  touch  of  his  pencil,  restored 
them  to  their  original  form  and  outline,  and  he  gave 
them  to  the  world  in  the  shape  of  carefully-executed 
etchings,  true  in  their  minutest  details  to  the  originals. 

Accompanying  the  pictures  is  a  brief  and  well-written 
history  of  each  mission.  The  work  was  most  conscien 
tiously  and  satisfactorily  accomplished,  and  it  should 
have  a  place  not  only  in  the  family,  but  in  every  public 
library  of  the  State,  as  well  as  in  those  of  other  States, 
for  the  interest  centering  about  these  historic  piles  is 
not  merely  local.  The  pictures  themselves  are  an  elo 
quent  story  of  a  past  that  is  of  national  interest  to  a 
country  like  ours,  extending  from  ocean  to  ocean,  and 
of  immense  value  to  the  future  historian  who  shall  write 
the  history  of  American  civilization  and  the  beginnings 
from  whence  it  sprung. 

Catholicism  and  Puritanism  are  looked  upon  generally 
as  opposing  forces,  but  here  each  had  its  work  of  prepa 
ration  to  accomplish,  and  each  did  it  well,  and  today 
they  stand  face  to  face  without  a  thought  of  conflict. 

Puritanism  commends  the  work  accomplished  by  those 
early  Mission  Fathers,  and  comes  here  to  sow  and  to 
reap  in  the  soil  which  they  prepared  and  which  they 
made  ready  for  the  larger  and  grander  life  of  this  later 
century. 

The  work  proposed  by  the  Landmarks  Club,  "to  con 
serve  the  missions  and  other  historic  landmarks  of 
Southern  California,"  is  a  most  commendable  one  and 
should  have  the  hearty  support  of  every  public-spirited 
citizen  of  the  State,  for  there  is  no  page  in  the  past  his 
tory  of  California  that  is  more  eloquent  of  sacrifice,  of 
patient  and  devoted  endeavor,  than  these  old  missions 
supply. 


THE  BORDER  LAND.* 

American  life  is  one  of  the  most  marvelous  and  com 
plicated  studies  of  the  present  age,  not  only  from  polit 
ical,  commercial  and  industrial  standpoints,  but  from  a 
religious  one  also.  Although  a  Christian  nation,  we 
have  almost  every  so-called  religion  represented  among 
our  conglomerate  population,  which  is  made  up  from 
nearly  every  land  under  the  sun.  The  idol  finds  here  its 
home  in  heathen  temples.  The  Chinese  has  his  joss- 
house  where  he  worships,  and  where  the  incense  which  he 
*August  31,  1902. 


offers  mingles  with  that  which  arises  from  other  altars 
where  other  gods  than  his  are  reverenced  and  adored. 

Already  at  Sacramento,  the  capital  of  our  Golden  State, 
has  a  Buddhist  temple  been  erected  by  the  Japanese  of 
that  city — the  first  temple  for  the  worship  of  Buddha 
that  has  been  built  in  the  United  States.  Lying,  as  Cali 
fornia  does,  at  the  gateway  to  the  Orient,  it  is  the  door 
of  entrance  for  those  Old  World  religions  which  have 
brought  forth  only  the  harvests  of  barbarism  and  super 
stition.  Thousands  of  their  followers  are  coming  into 
our  midst,  and  are  seeking  to  keep  alive  the  seeds  of  their 
faith  in  this  New  \\  orld.  It  is  an  age  of  conflict.  Super 
stition  never  rests,  but  it  is  aggressive  and  ready  to  at 
tack  the  Christian  faith  whenever  it  comes  in  contact 
with  it. 

It  is  a  strange  sight  to  see  the  joss-house  and  the  Bud 
dhist  temple  in  this  land  of  the  Mission  Fathers  and 
among  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans  who  have  come 
hither  to  these  western  shores.  The  pulse  of  the  Orient 
is  felt  along  with  the  heart-beats  of  the  West,  and  to 
gether  they  will  throb  along  the  lines  of  life  here  for  a 
time;  for  heathenism,  even  under  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 
will  make  no  voluntary  surrender  until  it  is  enlightened 
by  truth,  and  its  conscience  set  free  from  the  bondage 
of  superstition  and  darkness. 

Rev.  Arthur  H.  Smith,  writing  in  the  New  York  Ob 
server,  says:  "It  is  now  more  obvious  than  ever  that  the 
Chinese  consider  Confucianism  to  be  in  and  of  itself 
sufficient  for  all  the  needs  of  mankind,  and  that  outside 
of  those  directly  influenced  by  the  Christian  religion 
there  is  no  perception  of  the  imperative  need  of  a  re 
form  in  Chinese  character,  nor  of  the  development  of 
Chinese  national  conscience." 

California,  then,  may  yet  be  one  of  the  battlegrounds 
between  these  old  and  corrupt  faiths  and  the  vital,  soul- 
saving  truths  of  Christianity,  and  it  behooves  us  to  not 
only  keep  the  individual  conscience  right,  but  the  pub 
lic  conscience  also.  Political  purity,  high  morality,  no 
less  than  consistent  Christian  endeavor,  must  be  main 
tained.  Our  responsibility  is  large,  and  we  have  a  work 
to  do  that  no  other  section  of  the  country  can  do  for 
us.  Let  us  look  to  it  that  this  Border  Land  between 
the  corrupt  and  decaying  institutions  of  the  Orient  and 
the  life-infused  and  progressive  Occident  is  made 
worthy  of  all  that  is  great  and  enduring  in  modern 
Christian  civilization.  Let  us  have  a  pure  morality,  un 
questioned  political  honesty,  and  active  Christian  insti 
tutions,  that  shall  energize  every  progressive  force  at 
our  command.  Then,  indeed,  shall  our  State  be  the  Bor 
der  Land  of  hope  to  the  distant  Orient. 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  study  that  the  world  is  so  inter 
ested  in  at  present  as  the  study  of  the  American  people. 
What  is  to  be  its  future;  what  the  influence  it  is  to  ex 
ert  upon  the  life  and  history  of  other  nations,  and  is 
the  marvelous  growth  of  the  past  hundred  years  of  its 
history  to  continue?  are  some  of  the  questions  about 
which  other  nationalities  are  deeply  concerned. 


214 


Some  Pen  Pictures. 


As  thoughtful  Americans  study  their  own  history  and 
see  the  marvelous  changes  which  have  transpired  in  our 
national  life,  the  almost  miraculous  development  which 
has  taken  place  all  along  the  lines  of  Progress,  they,  too, 
feel  that  there  exists  for  us  some  great  purpose  for  the 
future,  and  that  this  nation  has  a  destiny  far  beyond 
that  of  which  the  past  dreamed  in  the  beginnings  of  our 
national  life. 

One  fact  which  is  most  gratifying  to  the  religious 
element  of  the  country  is  that  which  is  brought  out  by 
the  religious  department  of  the  United  States  Census, 
and  which  is  proved  by  the  religious  statistics  compiled 
for  the  year  1901,  which  show  that  the  number  of  Chris 
tians  in  the  United  States  is  growing  faster  than  the  total 
population  of  the  country.  "Figuring  on  a  total  of  77,- 
COO.COO,  there  was  a  gain  of  2.18  per  cent,  in  the  popu 
lation  of  the  country  during  the  past  year,  while  the 
gain  in  the  church  membership  of  the  country  was  3.67." 

This  certainly  is  an  encouraging  growth,  and  may  well 
give  us  larger  hopes  for  the  religious  future  of  the  land 
we  love.  With  Christianity  at  the  helm,  we  may  antici 
pate  the  ultimate  wiping  out  of  the  many  evils  now  ex 
isting  among  us.  As  has  been  truly  said,  "The  proper 
cure  for  the  wounds  from  which  society  suffers  is  the 
training  of  men  and  women  in  mercy  and  compassion." 
This  Christianity  will  do,  and  will  not  a  people  thus 
trained  exert  an  untold  influence  for  good  in  the  world 
of  human  affairs?  and  under  such  conditions  may  not 
America  yet  become  the  great  peace-making  power  among 
the  nations? 

We  are,  as  we  count  the  age  of  nations,  a  young 
people.  The  cradle  of  our  infancy  is  yet  fresh  and 
green;  yet  still  we  are  a  power  that  the  Old  World  fears 
to  offend,  and  from  the  grandeur  of  whose  achievements  it 
does  not  withhold  its  reverence.  We  are  an  example  to 
other  nations,  a  teacher  of  freedom  and  of  the  blessings 
of  religious  liberty.  We  are  great  in  the  field  of  in 
vention,  and  in  the  application  of  our  scientific  knowl 
edge;  we  have  spanned  the  continent  with  wires  that 
carry  our  speech  from  sea  to  sea;  we  have  with  the 
Iron  Horse  almost  annihilated  space  as  we  travel;  we 
have  planted  the  printing  press,  the  schoolhouse  and  the 
church  in  almost  every  town  and  hamlet  of  the  land; 
our  flag  has  been  carried  to  the  farthest  seas;  we  have 
uncounted  stores  of  wealth,  and  uncounted  millions  yet 
hidden  in  our  soil;  and  if  with  all  this  we  are  yet  strong 
in  righteousness,  and  make  justice  and  mercy  our  watch 
word  for  the  future,  we  have  but  made  the  beginning  of 
our  growth  and  greatness — have  but  entered  upon  its 
dawn.  The  glories  that  the  noon  will  reveal  will  be  far 
brighter,  and  will  shine  with  a  radiance  not  yet  perceived. 

We  were  planted  here  in  the  wilderness,  far  from  the 
Old  World's  tyrannies  and  strifes,  that  we  might  exem 
plify  the  great  principles  of  human  freedom  and  the 
beauty  of  that  Christianity  which  is  the  basis  of  our  Con 
stitution  and  the  energizing  life  of  American  freedom. 
Shall  we  be  true  to  these  high  purposes  until  America 
becomes  the  glory  of  the  world? 


SOME    PEN    PICTURES. 

It  is  well  for  us  at  times  to  look  at  life  as  it  is,  to 
see  both  sides  of  existence  in  the  great  city,  for  contrasts 
are  strong  in  the  stirring  life  of  every  metropolis,  and 
many  are  the  unwritten  lessons  which  we  should  do  well 
to  heed.  We  want  a  few  glimpses  today,  with  our 
readers,  at  life  as  it  exists  in  some  parts  of  Los  Angeles, 
find  instead  of  discussing  any  of  the  great  questions  of 
the  day,  permit  us  to  draw  a  few  pen  pictures  of  some 
of  the  byways  of  our  busy  city. 

It  is  the  new  life  that  walks  abroad  in  our  principal 
thoroughfares,  that  meets  the  eye  in  our  chief  residence 
sections,  that  confronts  us  in  our  church  edifices,  our 
business  houses,  and  our  schools,  hospitals  and  colleges. 
But,  turning  aside  from  these,  in  our  quaint  Sonoratown, 
how  do  the  Old  and  the  New  clasp  hands?  What  stories 
those  blind  adobe  walls  tell  that  align  the  streets  of  that 
section!  They  are  always  a  study  to  the  thoughtful,  and 
what  phases  of  life  do  we  find  there  today!  There,  in 
those  primitive  dwellings,  where  once  the  dark-eyed  and 
lovely  senorita  smiled,  sits  today  the  dull-faced  Celestial. 
There  is  his  queer  little  shop,  filled  with  his  wares.  He 
goes  in  and  out  of  the  narrow  open  door.  His  face  is 
stolid.  It  is  not  in  sympathy  with  the  world  about  him. 
And  beside  him,  in  the  room  adjoining,  is  the  place 
where  the  second-hand  furniture  man  has  located,  and 
what  a  medley  he  has  to  show !  He  is  not  of  the  better 
class  of  dealers  in  that  line,  for  he  has  only  the  cheapest 
of  articles  for  sale.  Yet  he  makes  a  living  somehow,  and 
does  not  seem  to  be  cast  down. 

And  alongside  him  is  the  shoemaker,  who  sits  on  his 
old-fashioned  bench  not  far  from  the  open  door.  In  the 
back  of  the  room  is  the  low  bedstead.  It  has  no  white 
covering,  but  a  quilt  of  patchwork  is  spread  over  it. 
There  is  a  deal  table  against  the  wall,  and  an  unpainted 
chair,  and  a  few  bits  of  crockery  upon  the  shelf.  This 
is  his  home.  But  we  do  not  see  any  wife  or  children 
there.  No,  he  lives  alone.  His  life  is  solitary.  To  eat 
and  work  and  sleep— that  fills  his  day.  Does  he  see  the 
glory  of  the  sky  above  him?  No,  for  he  does  not  look 
up.  Does  he  see  the  splendor  of  the  fair  blossoming 
earth?  No,  for  he  does  not  look  away  to  the  hills.  That 
little  dark  room  is  his  world.  Beyond  it  his  thoughts 
scarcely  go,  unless  they  wander  away  sometimes  back 
to  the  dim,  far-off  years  of  childhood,  when  he  chased 
the  butterflies  in  the  fields,  or  lay  down  in  the  green 
grass,  drinking  the  sunshine.  But  there,  next  door  to 
him,  now  is  the  saloon.  What  blear-eyed  men  and  women 
enter  its  doors !  What  a  nursery  of  sin  and  shame  and 
want  it  is !  He  would  like  to  get  away  from  it  if  he 
could,  but  he  is  poor,  and  here  rents  are  cheap,  and  so 
he  will  have  to  stay  on.  But  it  is  dreadful  to  have  to 
do  it.  Yet  life  doesn't  hold  anything  else  for  him.  He 
will  have  to  face  it  right  here  to  the  end. 

With  this  comes  the  thought,  what  will  the  end  bring? 
He  doesn't  know.  He  thinks  maybe  it  will  bring  him 
rest,  and  he  thinks  it  will  be  pleasant  to  lie  with  folded 
hands  and  quiet  feet.  Oh,  readers,  has  the  world  nothing 


215 


Editorial  Writings. 


to  do  with  him?  Is  there  no  voice  to  tell  him  of  the 
"green  pastures"  and  the  larger  life?  There  is  the 
foreign  mission  box.  Shall  we  help  to  fill  it  and  let  him 
go?  Shall  we  do  nothing  to  lift  him  and  other  dwellers 
about  him  out  of  this  meager  life  which  is  hardly  more 
than  mere  existence? 

Oh,  the  highways  and  the  byways  of  a  great  city! 
What  do  they  not  show  and  what  do  they  not  conceal? 
And  have  we,  the  well-fed  and  prosperous,  nothing  to 
do  with  those  who  are  found  there?  Shall  we  put  out 
of  sight  the  principle  of  universal  brotherhood  and  act 
in  all  the  affairs  of  the  city  upon  the  principle,  "Each 
man  for  himself?"  Let  us  answer  this  question  each 
to  his  own  conscience,  and  then  do  our  whole  duty  as 
we  see  it  to  the  humble  dwellers  in  the  byways  of  Los 
Angeles.  The  light  and  gladness  and  the  progress  of 
the  Twentieth  Century  should  penetrate  every  nook 
and  corner  of  our  city,  and  until  it  does  our  duty  is 
unfulfilled. 


AFTER   THE    RAIN.* 

Strangers  here  in  California  who  are  really  lovers  of 
Nature  seemed  to  look  upon  our  world  with  a  wonderfully 
enlarged  vision  after  the  rain  of  Sunday  night.  The 
marvelous  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  on  Monday  morn 
ing  was  a  wonderful  revelation  to  them.  The  grand 
mountain  heights,  glowing  in  the  sunlight  like  jeweled 
piles  of  ever-changing  colors,  appealed  to  their  sense  of 
magnificence  and  grandeur.  How  near  even  the  farther 
ranges  seemed  in  the  transparent  atmosphere!  How 
clearly  and  well-defined  stood  out  the  vast  mountain 
canons  and  the  glowing  peaks !  How  unlike  the  lofty 
ranges  that  have  peered  at  us  from  out  the  dust-laden 
atmosphere  of  the  past  few  weeks!  Transfigured,  they 
seem  to  touch  the  glowing  skies  and  to  beam  with  a 
like  splendor  of  beauty.  They  stood  like  mighty  altars 
lit  with  sunbeams.  Before,  all  the  great  canoned  deeps 
had  been  veiled.  We  saw  only  solid  mountain  fronts, 
rock-ribbed  and  frowning.  Now  there  were  shapely 
pinnacles  and  domes,  and  tree-lined  deeps,  and  reflections 
manifold  of  wondrous  colors.  The  majestic  peaks  were 
stupendous  mosaics  such  as  none  but  the  hand  of  the 
Infinite  could  carve.  The  far-away  distances  seemed  to 
draw  nigh,  and  the  towering  ranges  approached  nearer  to 
us.  It  was  a  transformation  such  as  those  accustomed 
only  to  forest-clad  heights  had  never  before  witnessed, 
and  it  filled  them  with  surprise  and  admiration.  It  was 
one  of  the  surprises  which  this  Wonderland  of  ours  has 
to  offer,  one  of  the  delights  which  the  true  lover  of 
Nature  who  comes  to  us  does  most  enjoy. 

And  we  shall  have  further  delights  to  offer  him  when 
heavier  rains  have  fallen;  the  delights  of  green  fields 
and  hillsides,  of  unnumbered  blossoms  and  of  great 
orchards  'neath  cloudless  skies.  Surely  this  is  the  land 
that  beckons,  and  it  is  to  be  the  Mecca  of  the  industrial 
future,  as  well  as  the  land  glowing  with  beauty  and  with 
grandeur. 

"January  24,  1904. 


RAIN-WASHED    CALIFORNIA.* 

A  new  world  will  open  soon  before  the  eyes  of  de 
lighted  visitors  to  this  section  of  California,  who,  during 
this  dry,  rainless  season  have  seen  the  country  at  its 
worst,  with  bare,  brown  plains,  without  growing  harvests 
or  evidence  of  agricultural  wealth  or  beauty.  They  have 
enjoyed  the  charms  of  our  climate,  the  soft,  balmy  air, 
the  golden  sunshine,  the  resplendent  beauty  of  our  cloud 
less  skies,  the  glorious  uplift  of  our  Sierra  heights  and 
the  picturesque  loveliness  of  our  surroundings;  but  of  the 
wondrous  beauty  that  is  born  after  the  bounteous  winter 
rains  they  know  nothing,  and  they  will  marvel  at  the 
rapidity  of  growth  which  will  be  ours  with  the  returning 
sunshine. 

It  is  wonderful  how  things  grow  in  the  rich  soil  of  this 
region  after  an  abundant  rain.  A  few  days  of  sunshine 
and  a  green  mist  covers  the  earth.  Millions  of  grassy 
blades  have  pushed  their  way  through  the  soil.  All  blos 
soming  things  are  springing  into  budding  life.  Fragrance 
fills  the  .air.  The  skies  grow  resplendent  with  the  clearer 
light,  and  the  infinite  deeps  of  ether  seem  vaster,  richer 
than  before.  All  the  birds  of  the  air  awake  to  fresh 
singing;  the  happy  butterflies  spread  their  wings,  the  bees 
hum  a  gayer  tune  of  gladness,  millions  of  new  flowers 
unfold,  and  the  great  poppy  fields  grow  golden  "in  the 
sun.  Of  the  beauty  of  these  fields  one  who  has  never 
seen  them  has  no  conception,  as  they  lie  bright  and  glow 
ing  in  the  nursing  sunlight.  Of  them  the  poet  of  the 
Sierras  has  sung: 

"The  golden  poppy  is  God's  gold, 

The  gold  that  lifts,  nor  weighs  us  down, 
The  gold  that  knows  no  miser's  hold, 

The  gold  that  banks  not  in  the  town. 
But  singing,  laughing,  freely  spills 

Its  hoard  far  up  the  happy  hills; 
Far  up,  far  down,  at  every  turn — 

What  beggar  has  not  gold  to  burn ! " 

Another  week  of  sunshine  and  the  whole  earth  will  be 
emerald-clad  and  flower-dotted.  The  breath  of  June 
will  be  in  the  atmosphere,  and  soon  will  come  the  won 
derful  splendor  of  color  and  fragrance  that  is  born  of 
the  newly  opening  flowers.  The  great  rocky  domes  of  the 
Sierras  will  stand  ovtt  clearer  against  the  rain-washed 
skies.  The  soft  murmur  of  streams  will  grow  into  the 
melody  of  song.  Rich,  glowing  emerald  will  take  the 
place  of  brown  upon  the  hillsides.  The  waving  harvests 
of  grain  will  cover  the  plains;  the  trees,  washed  free  from 
dust,  will  shimmer  in  brightness,  and  gleam  in  the  golden 
splendor  of  the  sun.  Everything  clean  and  fair  on  Na 
ture's  face,  the  world  full  of  harmony  and  unfolding  life, 
with  no  harsh  winds,  no  chilling  airs  to  mar  the  comfort 
of  our  days,  the  renewed  beauty  of  the  land  will  take 
strangers'  hearts  captive,  as  it  long  ago  did  our  own,  and 
many  of  the  visitors  who  are  now  with  us  will  doubtless 
remain  most  willingly  to  make  their  future  homes  here, 
made  captive  by  Nature's  charms. 
*February  21,  1904. 


216 


The  Louisiana  Purchase. 


THE    IDEAL    NATION. 

Every  patriot  citizen  loves  his  country,  and  is  proud 
of  the  greatness  and  the  glory  which  America  has 
achieved.  Hut  we  do  not  rest  there;  we  want  to  see  it 
go  on  and  on  along  the  ever-unfolding  lines  of  Christian 
civilization  and  progress.  But  how  often  do  we  as  citizens 
)f  this  great  Republic  stop  to  earnestly  and  carefully 
consider  the  weight  of  personal  responsibility  in  this 
regard?  It  is  not  enough  that  a  man  votes,  and  votes 
as  he  thinks  is  for  the  right  and  for  the  good  of  the 
nation  at  every  election,  that  he  pays  his  taxes  promptly 
and  honestly,  and  does  his  duty  as  a  soldier  or  public 
servant.  There  is  an  obligation  behind  all  this  which  is 
not  properly  considered  by  the  masses,  all-important 
and  weighty  as  it  is,  and  which  has  been  denominated  by 
a  recent  writer  as  "the  obligation  of  personal  character." 
In  speaking  of  this  the  same  writer  observes:  "Each 
citizen  owes  to  the  nation  the  duty  of  maintaining  in 
himself  a  high,  clean,  moral  character.  His  personal 
morality  is  a  debt  to  the  nation.  Indeed,  it  is  a  part  of 
the  nation's  morality.  .  .  .  It  is  of  primary  import 
ance,  an  obligation  which  is  binding  upon  all  citizens, 
and  binding  at  all  times  and  in  all  places.  There  is 
no  break  or  cessation  in  its  force,  and  there  are  no 
conditions  or  circumstances  under  or  by  which  any  citizen 
is  released  from  its  demands.  It  is  the  only  duty  which 
underlies  all  others;  with  it  we  may  hope  to  realize  some 
thing  of  the  greatness  and  nobility  of  citizenship  in  this 
Republic;  without  it  the  loudest  voices  of  assumed  pa 
triotism  are  but  "sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbals." 

Good  character  in  the  individuals  that  compose  the  na 
tion  is  the  only  thing  that  can  make  it  great,  that  can 
make  it  invincible  against  wrong  and  oppression,  and 
which  will  enable  society  to  overcome  the  moral  enemies 
which  are  assailing  it  on  every  hand.  "But  what  is  good 
character?"  do  you  ask.  In  the  words  of  David  E. 
Brewer,  Associate  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the 
United  States,  "It  is  righteousness  in  the  soul.  It  is  the 
shining  jewel  of  life,  that  to  which  we  all  look  up,  which 
we  all  admire.  It  makes  the  chasm  which  separates  man 
from  the  brute,  the  'great  gulf  fixed'  which  the  brute 
cannot  cross,  and  the  man  ought  not  to  cross.  It  is  the 
link  which  binds  him  to  the  divine.  In  flesh  we  are 
brothers  of  the  beast,  living  without  thought,  unmoved 
by  conscience,  ignorant  of  purity  and  dying  without  hope 
or  remorse.  In  nobility  of  soul,  in  elevation  of  charac 
ter,  we  are  heirs,  not  merely  of  the  ages,  but  of  eternity; 
we  clasp  hands  with  the  Infinite  and  Eternal,  and  are 
bold  to  say  'of  Thee  and  Thine.'  " 

The  beginning  of  the  Twentieth  Century  sees  a  world 
of  unrest.  It  sees  the  different  nations  eyeing  each  other 
with  suspicion  and  jealousy.  It  beholds  the  mustering  of 
mighty  armies,  and  the  organization  of  great  naval  fleets. 
Suspense  sits  brooding  over  the  Occident  and  the  Orient 
alike,  and  it  seems  at  times  as  if  the  world  were  upon 
the  verge  of  the  greatest  conflicts  that  the  earth  has  ever 
known.  And  how  is  this  Republic  to  stand  in  relation 
to  these  great  world  conflicts?  With  the  "solemn  sense 


of  responsibility"  that  fills  the  heart  of  the  American 
people,  may  we  not  hope  that  they  will  always  be  found 
true  to  their  high  ideals  of  liberty  and  justice,  true  to 
that  priceless  heritage  which  we  possess,  a  national  char 
acter  unstained  by  usurpation,  loving  justice  and  hating 
oppression,  foremost  among  the  nations  speaking  for 
peace,  and  holding  sacred  our  ideals  of  a  still  nobler 
life  for  the  Republic? 

As  Justice  Brewer  has  so  truly  said:  "Among  the 
ideals  filling  the  aspiring  soul  of  every  citizen  of  these 
United  States  should  be  the  ideal  nation.  Neither  him- 
belf  nor  his  family,  his  friends,  the  community  of  which 
he  is  primarily  a  citizen,  should  fill  the  measure  of  his 
thoughts  and  labors  but  the  great  Republic,  of  which 
both  himself  and  his  family,  friends  and  community,  and 
State  are  but  parts,  should  ever  rise  like  Mont  Blanc 
among  the  Alps,  the  supreme  object  of  devotion  and 
toil.  One  clear  purpose  of  every  life  should  be  to  help 
in  making  the  nation  better.  .  .  .  We  must  live  with 
the  idea  that  we  owe  a  solemn  duty  to  this  Republic; 
that  we  are  its  large  debtors,  and  that  the  only  limit  to 
our  obligation  is  our  capacity  to  help  in  lifting  its  life 
to  a  higher  and  nobler  plane." 

If  we  do  live  in  this  way  we  shall  be  an  invincible 
people,  a  nation  against  which  all  the  powers  of  the  earth 
cannot  prevail,  for  the  God  of  Battles  will  be  on  our 
side,  the  Lord  of  Hosts  our  captain. 


THE    LOUISIANA    PURCHASE.* 

It  sometimes  takes  centuries  for  men  to  interpret  the 
providences  of  God  in  the  affairs  of  nations  and  to  under 
stand  the  bearing  which  they  have  upon  the  history  of 
the  race.  Occurrences  which  are  vast  and  far-reaching  in 
their  effects  at  times  transpire  with  never  a  suspicion  on 
the  part  of  those  involved  in  them  of  the  wonderful  fac 
tors  which  they  will  prove  to  be  in  the  unfolding  of  the 
future.  How  truly  has  this  been  the  case  in  different 
periods  of  the  history  of  the  American  people!  Take, 
for  instance,  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  one  of  the  most  im 
portant  date-marks  in  the  story  of  American  progress 
and  the  advancement  and  growth  of  civilization,  and  note 
what  the  effects  of  that  transaction  have  been,  for  which, 
at  the  time,  those  hostile  to  Jefferson  so  ridiculed  him, 
but  which  we,  a  hundred  years  afterward,  are  preparing 
to  celebrate  with  rejoicing  and  ceremony,  recognizing  in 
it  the  providence  which  made  it  possible  for  us  to  be 
come  a  nation  of  continental  greatness  and  world-wide 
influence. 

The  area  included  in  that  purchase  is  875,000  square 
miles,  an  area  54,056  square  miles  greater  than  the  whole 
of  the  original  thirteen  States.  And  out  of  this  vast 
territory  we  have  carved  almost  the  whole  of  twelve 
great  commonwealths,  namely,  Louisiana,  Arkansas,  Mis 
souri,  Iowa,  Minnesota,  North  Dakota,  South  Dakota, 
Nebraska,  Kansas,  Colorado,  Wyoming  and  Montana— be 
sides  Oklahoma  and  the  Indian  Territory.  Says  The 
World's  Work:  "This  region  is  nearly  a  third  of  the 
•August  16,  1903. 


Editorial  Writings. 


area  of  the  present  United  States,  and  it  gives  homes  to 
almost  a  fifth  of  its  inhabitants.  Its  population  of  50,000 
in  1803," — less  than  half  as  many  as  Los  Angeles  contains 
today— "had  expanded  to  14,708,616  in  1900,  or  nearly 
three  times  the  population  of  the  entire  United  States  in 
1800,  and  nearly  four  times  the  whole  country's  popula 
tion  at  the  time  Washington  was  first  inaugurated  as 
President." 

Thus  we  see  that  vast  solitudes  have  been  peopled,  and 
uncultivated  wildernesses  have  changed  to  fruitful  and 
populous  territories.  It  has  become  also  one  of  the  great 
granaries  of  the  world,  also  a  large  industrial  center,  a 
center  of  some  of  the  greatest  manufacturing  activities 
of  civilization.  It  is  rich,  too,  in  mineral  wealth.  In 
speaking  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  the  same  authority 
says: 


One  of  the  dozen  States  of  the  purchase,  Colorado, 
produced  more  gold  in  1902  ($28,000,000)  than  the 
entire  territory  of  the  present  United  States  produced 
from  the  discovery  of  America  in  1492  to  James  W. 
Marshall's  great  strike  in  the  raceway  of  Sutter's  mill, 
on  the  American  fork  of  the  Sacramento,  in  1848. 
In  proportion  to  its  area,  the  Cripple  Creek  district 
in  Colorado  is  the  richest  piece  of  gold-bearing 
ground  on  the  globe  except  the  Rand  district  in  South 
Africa.  Colorado  has  produced  $308,000,000  in  gold, 
$372,000,000  of  silver,  $116,000,000  of  lead,  and 
$16,000,000  of  copper,  or  $812,000,000  for  these  four 
metals.  Montana  also  in  four  metals  has  added  much 
more  than  $1,000,000,000  to  the  world's  wealth  in  the 
less  than  forty  years  which  have  passed  since  Fair- 
weather,  Edgar  and  their  companions  made  the  gold 
strike  on  Alder  Gulch,  the  site  of  the  present  Vir 
ginia  City,  which  started  the  inrush  from  all  over 
the  world  that  put  Montana  on  the  map.  Copper  has 
yielded  $391,000,000  for  Montana  since  1882.  Out  of 
its  mines  have  been  dug  $357,000,000  of  silver  and 
$282,000,000  of  gold. 


The  whole  story  of  that  purchase,  as  we  read  it  in  the 
light  of  today,  is  more  wonderful  than  the  imagination 
alone  could  conceive.  We  can  readily  perceive  at  pres 
ent  that  it  meant  a  mighty  uplift  for  American  great 
ness  and  American  civilization.  Without  that  purchase 
the  annexation  of  Texas,  New  Mexico,  Oregon  and  the 
Golden  State  of  California  would  have  been  impossible. 
Hostile  powers  might  easily  have  grown  up  on  our 
western  borders,  and  other  flags  than  that  of  freedom 
have  waved  beyond  the  western  banks  of  the  Mississippi. 
Xo  open  highway  to  the  Orient  would  have  been  ours 
without  the  acquisition  of  this  vast  territory,  and  as  we 
see  our  flag  of  glorious  Stars  and  Stripes  borne  across 
the  mighty  waters  of  the  Pacific  and  planted  upon  the 
Islands  of  the  Sunrise,  carrying  with  it  political  freedom 
and  the  blessing*  of  Christianity,  we  read  the  larger 
meaning  of  the  Louisiana  Purchase  and  trace  the  provi 
dence  of  God  along  all  the  paths  that  we  have  come. 

And  well  may  we  celebrate  the  centennial  of  that  pur 
chase,  .  .  .  for  it  was  one  of  the  great  events  of  the 
ages,  without  which  America  could  never  have  become 
the  World  Power  that  she  is  today. 


God  struck  the  anvil  of  His  wisdom  and 
Moulded  the  Future  for  us,  though  we  knew 
It  not.     His  Providence  welded  for  us 
The  mighty  continent,  and  He  from  sea 
To  sea  furrowed  the  highways  of  Freedom, 
And  stretched  across  the  deep  the  unseen  lines 
Of  His  great  purpose,  until  today  we 
Say,  behold  what  God  hath  wrought ! 


EASTER.* 

The  day  before  the  dawn  of  earth's  first  Easter  Sab 
bath  the  Christian  world  was  enveloped  in  despairing 
gloom.  The  light  of  spiritual  hope  had  gone  out  and  the 
blackness  and  silence  of  death  touched  the  hearts  of 
those  who  had  followed  the  lowly  Nazarene,  believing 
that  it  was  He  who  should  redeem  Israel  and  bring  life 
and  immortality  to  light.  But  Death  had  conquered 
Him,  and  in  His  rock-hewn  sepulcher,  whose  door  was 
closed  with  a  great  stone,  He  lay  cold  and  breathless, 
the  dew  of  death  upon  His  brow,  His  lips  still  and 
speechless,  and  His  sightless  eyes  closed  in  the  darkness 
of  the  tomb. 

How  often  in  other  days  had  His  voice  thrilled  them 
as  He  proclaimed,  "I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life; 
whosoever  believeth  on  me  shall  never  die."  How  often 
had  He  proclaimed  His  divinity  and  His  eternity  as  He 
so  plainly  asserted,  "I  and  my  Father  are  one" — the  one 
eternal  God  who  could  not  die,  and  in  whom  alone  was 
the  hope  of  endless  life.  And  in  the  face  of  all  this  He 
had  died  the  shameful  death  on  the  Cross.  Numbered 
among  transgressors,  amid  awful  thunders  and  darkness 
and  the  earthquake  shock,  the  spirit  that  His  disciples 
had  so  loved  had  passed;  the  Christ  was  dead,  and  with 
Him  had  died  the  glorious  hopes  that  had  thrilled  them 
of  eternal  life  with  Him  and  of  a  kingdom  all  powerful 
where  He  should  reign  forever.  What  wonder  that  His 
loving  followers  stood  stunned  with  sorrow,  and  that 
life  looked  dark,  and  desolate  and  hopeless?  Where 
should  they  turn  for  succor  and  for  comfort?  Could  He 
who  had  healed  the  sick  and  raised  the  dead,  and  who 
had  proclaimed  Himself  the  living  Christ  and  the  hope 
of  a  dying  world,  be  indeed  an  impostor?  Why  could 
He  not  conquer  Death  for  Himself  as  well  as  for  others? 
Oh,  whither  should  they  look  for  succor,  whither  for  the 
hope  of  immortality?  Mocked  by  that  stony  sepulcher  in 
which  He  lay,  from  whence  should  the  whispers  of 
Hope  spring,  and  in  what  soil  should  faith  again  take 
root? 

O  broken-hearted  disciples!  was  ever  hour  so  dark  to 
the  Christian  believer,  so  full  of  mystery  and  gloom  as 
this? 

The  night  before  the  Easter  dawn  was  slowly  paling. 
The  winds  breathed  softly,  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
dew-wet  lilies  filled  the  air.  A  pale  flush  of  light  crept 
upward  in  the  East,  which  gradually  brightened  and 
filled  the  world  with  beauty.  Around  that  silent  sepul- 
*April  12,  1903. 


218 


Our  Strenuous  Life. 


cher  in  the  lonely  garden  a  soft,  translucent  glory  shone. 
There  was  something  like  the  waft  of  unseen  wings  and 
the  melodious  whisper  of  unearthly  voices.  The  great 
stone  at  the  door  of  the  sepulcher  was  rolled  away,  the 
air  grew  resplendent  with  light,  and  from  the  grave 
the  Conqueror  of  Death  came  forth,  our  risen  Lord. 
The  work  of  redemption  was  fully  wrought,  and  earth 
awakened  to  new  hopes  and  the  full  assurance  of  a 
glorious  immortality  through  the  world's  Redeemer. 

The  instinct  of  human  nature  desires  the  proper  ob 
servance  of  those  days  that  mark  epochs  in  the  lives  of 
men  and  that  affect  the  destiny  of  nations  and  the  race. 
There  is  a  natural  craving  in  the  human  heart  for  the 
commemoration  of  all  that  which  ennobles  human  des 
tiny  and  lifts  it  to  a  higher  plane  of  thought  and  action. 
The  patriot  celebrates  those  days  which  brought  honor 
and  glory  to  his  country.  He  rejoices  in  all  that  which 
enlarges  human  freedom  and  popular  government  and 
which  opens  a  broader  path  for  human  progress. 

The  religious  nature  of  man  is  not  oblivious  to  this 
sentiment,  for  the  religious  instinct  is  stronger  within 
his  breast  than  any  other  that  moves  him.  He  is  by 
nature  given  to  worship.  With  no  definite  knowledge 
of  a  creative  power,  he  lifts  reverent  eyes  to  the  sun  as 
worthy  of  his  adoration,  and  builds  his  altars  upon 
lofty  mountain  summits,  or  makes  the  groves  his  tem 
ples.  What  wonder,  then,  that  this  instinct  is  kindled 
to  its  highest  inspiration  where  Christian  faith  points 
backward  to  that  time  in  human  history  when  the  re 
demption  of  the  race  was  accomplished  and  the  hope  of 
immortality  sprang  from  the  open  grave  of  the  risen 
Christ?  All  Christendom  unites  with  us  today  in  the 
celebration  of  Easter. 

"In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies 
Christ   was   born  across  the  sea." 

And  here  upon  this  sunset  slope,  "in  the  beauty  of  the 
lilies,"  we  celebrate  His  glorious  resurrection  from  the 
grave  and  the  triumphs  of  the  principles  which  He 
taught. 

The  fatherhood  of  God  and  the  brotherhood  of  man  is 
the  proclamation  which  Easter  brings  to  us.  We  see 
the  gates  of  Death  and  Sin  swing  backward  and  the 
light  of  eternal  hope  streams  through  them.  Well  may 
our  hearts  be  glad,  for  we  celebrate  today  the  dawn  of 
immortal  hope.  Again  are  we  assured  that  as  Christ 
arose,  so  may  we  arise  from  the  grave,  for  He  has  con 
quered  Death  for  us,  and  bids  us  rejoice  in  the  hope  of  a 
like  resurrection  through  faith  in  His  name. 


OUR  STRENUOUS  LIFE* 

We  do  not  believe  that  man  lives  as  long  as  he  ought 
to,  or  as  long  as  he  well  might  if  he  would  only  live 
rationally  and  intelligently,  always  with  high  aims  and 
a  hopeful  spirit.  Our  modern  civilization  is  getting  too 
far  away  from  Nature,  and  is  not  sufficiently  in  touch 
with  its  influences.  It  is  wedded  to  the  city's  streets, 
•May  3,  1903. 


and  loves  the  rush  and  whirl  of  metropolitan  life,  and 
is  not  content  unless  environed  by  it.  The  life  of  the 
average  denizen  of  the  city  is  one  that  is  wrapped  up 
in  business  enterprises,  and  he  has  no  time  or  opportunity 
to  study  the  marvelous  lessons  inscribed  upon  the  broad 
pages  of  Nature  in  our  fields  and  woods,  and  on  our 
mountain  heights. 

The  quiet  charm  of  the  country  is  enough  to  win  the 
heart  of  every  lover  of  the  beautiful  in  nature,  and  to 
quicken  his  desire  for  a  higher  life.  At  the  present  time, 
here  in  semi-tropical  California,  the  winds  scarce 
breathe  aloud.  The  leaves  flutter  in  the  delicious  air, 
which  is  full  of  fragrance.  The  sunshine  is  mildly  tem 
pered  by  delicious  sea-breezes.  Bird-song  is  abundant,  as 
if  the  world  were  one  charmed  temple  of  melody.  Could 
anything  be  more  perfect  than  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the 
soft  breathing  of  the  incense-laden  air?  Anything  di 
viner  than  the  gold  of  the  sunshine  and  the  splendor  of 
opalescent  lights  upon  the  mighty  uplift  of  mountains? 
Anything  more  beautiful  than  the  rich  mosaics  of  the 
fields  with  their  golden  blooms  and  numberless  shades 
of  green,  and  the  cool  emerald  of  the  many  trees  over 
shadowing  them?  Aught  more  ravishingly  fair  than  the 
millions  of  blossoms  of  every  shade  and  hue  laughing 
in  the  sun  and  tossing  from  every  petal  their  fragrance 
into  the  enveloping  atmosphere? 

Nature  is  beautiful,  and  why  should  not  all  men  find 
inspiration  in  its  charms?  Why  are  not  men  more 
largely  influenced  by  the  lessons  of  beauty  and  wisdom 
which  might  be  drawn  from  its  great  open  volume?  May 
not  the  answer  to  this  query  be  found  in  the  assertion 
of  Ruskin  when  he  says,  "The  trouble  with  most  men  is 
that  they  go  through  the  world  and  never  look  up." 

The  haste  to  get  rich  marks  the  spirit  of  the  age,  and 
men  of  affairs  consider  that  they  have  little  time  for 
matters  which  they  deem  of  such  small  moment  as  "this 
browsing  out  of  doors,  with  no  particular  end  in  view." 
They  do  not  comprehend  the  largeness  of  Nature,  nor 
the  soothing  influence  which  she  exerts  upon  the  tired 
brain  and  restless  spirit.  If  we  were  better  students  of 
Nature  and  maintained  with  her  a  closer  comradeship, 
the  civilization  of  today  would  lose  much  of  its  sordid 
spirit  and  its  pronounced  selfish  aims.  We  should  come 
to  realize  that  wealth  is  by  no  means  the  sine  qua  non  of 
happiness,  but  that  greater  joy  and  contentment  may  be 
realized  from  the  simpler  pleasures  of  life,  which  may  be 
had  without  money  and  without  price.  If  the  present 
generation  upon  the  stage  of  action  will  not  heed  these 
truths,  let  us  so  train  our  children  that  they  may  be 
wiser  than  we,  and  that  they  may  come  into  closer  touch 
with  the  great  world  about  them,  till  they  shall  find 
sermons  in  stones,  and  voices  in  the  running  brooks,  and 
shall  understand  that  they  stand  as  the  crown  and 
glory  of  this  marvelous  creation  which  God  has  made 
for  the  high  and  noble  purposes  of  good.  Not  to  gain 
wealth  and  power  alone,  but  to  illustrate  the  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  a  high  and  noble  manhood,  should  be 
the  ulterior  aim  of  the  civilization  of  today. 


219 


Editor  la  I  Writings. 


WHITHER  ARE  WE  TENDING?* 

It  is  worth  the  while  sometimes  to  sit  clown  and  con 
sider  ourselves  seriously,  to  look  below  the  surface  of 
things  into  the  seething  cauldron  of  events  that  go  to 
make  up  the  life  of  a  great  people.  There  are  in  every 
land  gigantic  evils  which  take  root  and  grow  if  not 
regarded  by  the  watchful  eye  of  the  public,  evils  which 
threaten  the  very  life  and  safety  of  the  nation  which  lets 
them  pass  unheeded  and  unrebuked. 

America  is  now  a  great  world  power.  She  claims  to  be 
a  Christian  nation — a  land  where  the  Sabbath  is  re 
garded,  and  where  the  church-spire  may  be  found  ris 
ing  everywhere  across  the  wide  spaces  of  the  continent 
from  ocean  to  ocean.  She  is  a  land  also  of  newspa 
pers,  of  public  schools,  of  colleges  and  universities, 
of  scientific  advancement,  of  invention,  and  of  all  that 
enters  into  the  progressive  life  of  this  early  morning  of 
the  Twentieth  Century.  The  world  respects  her  and  dares 
not  ignore  her  when  considering  the  affairs  that  are  of 
moment  to  the  well-being  of  different  lands. 

And  well  it  may  so  regard  us,  for  America  is  patriotic, 
she  loves  freedom,  she  loves  justice,  she  loves  human 
ity.  But  as  we  study  the  life  and  practices  of  the  Amer 
ican  people  closely  we  find  the  existence  of  appalling 
evils  in  our  midst,  and  there  are  figures  presented  by 
public  statistics  that  are  startling  in  their  character  and 
import.  Among  these  is  the  divorce  evil,  which  is  con 
stantly  growing,  and  is  assuming  such  proportions  as  to 
make  the  thoughtful  lover  of  his  country  anxiously  in 
quire,  "Whither  are  we  drifting?"  for  upon  the  home 
rests  the  safety  and  permanency  of  our  national  life. 

The  Christian  home  is  the  corner-stone  of  our  liberties, 
the  place  where  the  statesmen,  the  philanthropists,  the 
great  men  of  our  future  must  be  bred  and  nurtured 
and  the  lessons  of  a  noble  manhood  be  learned.  That 
home  must  be  kept  inviolate  and  the  sanctity  of  mar 
riage  be  maintained,  and  our  children  educated  to  the 
belief  that  the  marriage  vow  is  binding  and  cannot  be 
lightly  broken  and  cast  aside. 

But  how  do  we  compare  with  other  nations  in  this 
respect?  Says  W.  S.  Harwood,  in  "The  World  of  To 
day:"  "In  the  thirty- four  years  between  1867  and  1901, 
the  divorces  granted  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada  num 
bered  sixty-nine.  In  the  same  period  in  the  United  States 
the  number  of  divorces  granted  was  nearly  seven  hundred 
thousand.  The  population  of  the  United  States  during 
this  period  has  averaged  about  twelve  times  as  large  as 
that  of  Canada;  its  divorces,  compared  with  those  of  the 
main  portion  of  the  Dominion,  have  been  two  thousand 
times  as  many.  If  divorces  in  the  United  States  during 
the  three  decades  had  been  the  same  per  capita  as  in 
Canada,  there  would  have  been  less  than  two  thousand 
in  the  entire  country.  In  other  words,  the  divorces  granted 
in  the  United  States  would  have  been  reduced  by  668,000." 

Does  not  this  show  an  appalling  amount  of  laxity 
among  the  people  of  this  country  upon  this  matter,  a 
*March  13,  1904. 


laxity  which  threatens  the  very  life  and  well-being  of  the 
nation?  A  divorce  is  an  easy  thing  to  be  obtained  here, 
often  upon  the  most  trivial  pretexts.  But  in  Canada  it 
is  different.  Says  the  writer  before  quoted: 

In  Canada  the  conditions  are  radically  different. 
The  people  have  been  educated  in  a  different  school. 
They  have  been  taught  that  the  marriage  vow  is 
essentially  indissoluble.  They  have  been  taught  that 
marriage  is  not  lightly  to  be  entered  into;  that,  once 
contracted,  it  is  not  to  be  dissolved  save  by  death. 
The  only  parties  to  a  marriage  in  Canada  are  a  man, 
a  woman  and  God.  The  Canadians  do  not  believe  in 
any  law  pertaining  to  the  abrogation  of  marriage 
which  in  its  enforcement  ignores  any  one  of  these. 
They  have  been  educated  to  see  in  the  marriage  con 
tract  not  only  an  abiding  bond  between  man  and 
woman,  but  a  definite  assurance  of  strength  for  the 
state. 

In  Canada  there  are  but  two  things  which  can  dis 
solve  marriage — death  and  infidelity.  An  applicant 
for  divorce  must  act  under  the  provisions  of  a  law 
marked  at  every  step  by  the  most  rigorous  limita 
tions.  If  a  man  or  tt  woman— for  the  requirements 
are  the  same — wishes  to  secure  divorce  in  Canada  he 
must  resign  himself  at  the  outset  to  publicity.  Pub 
licity,  absolute  publicity,  is  an  essential  to  divorce 
in  the  Dominion;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  securing 
a  divorce  on  the  quiet.  A  formal  notice,  couched  in 
the  prescribed  form  of  the  law,  announcing  intention 
to  apply  for  divorce,  giving  the  names  of  applicant 
and  accused,  with  the  ground  of  accusation,  must  be 
inserted  for  six  months  in  two  newspapers  published 
in  the  town  or  city  where  the  applicant  resided  at 
the  time  of  separation.  A  similar  notice  must  also 
be  printed  in  the  Canada  Gazette,  the  official  organ 
of  the  government. 

The  one  applying  for  divorce  may  not  hope  to  be 
represented  on  the  trial  by  his  counsel,  he  must  be 
present  in  person.  His  advocate  may  be  by  his  side, 
but  here,  as  at  every  step,  the  public  must  be  per 
mitted  the  full  view*  of  the  family  skeleton.  Xor  is 
the  hearing  in  the  matter  to  come  before  any  court. 
Xo  court  of  law  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada  has  any 
thing  to  do  in  granting  divorce,  no  judge  on  any 
bench  has  authority  to  consider  any  case  in  which 
the  marriage  contract  is  to  be  annulled,  though  he 
may,  in  certain  matters,  say  whether  a  marriage  has 
been  solemnized  or  not.  To  obtain  divorce  in  Canada 
the  applicant  must  go  to  the  Dominion  Parliament, 
the  highest  legislative  body  in  the  realm.  It  is  in 
the  chamber  of  the  Divorce  Committee  of  the  Na 
tional  Senate  that  he  must  appear  who  sues  for 
divorce.  This  Divorce  Committee,  consisting  of  nine 
members,  has  full  power.  It  can  perform  all  the 
essentials  of  a  court  without  being  a  court.  Its 
object  is  to  get  at  all  the  facts,  not  to  consider  some 
and  suppress  others.  It  is  not  bound  by  any  set 
rules  or  by  precedents.  It  is  not  open  to  prejudice 
or  bribery.  It  has  only  one  course  to  follow;  to  hear 
the  evidence  and  decide  whether,  in  the  judgment 
of  its  members,  the  applicant  should  be  granted  the 
freedom  sought. 

These  things  are  certainly  a  matter  for  serious  thought 
by  the  people  of  the  United  States.  The  family  life  must 
be  kept  pure,  and  the  marriage  relation  be  held  sacred, 
if  we  would  not  see  the  government  and  the  character  of 
our  free  institutions  decay.  The  magnitude  of  this 
divorce  evil  must  be  overcome.  Only  think  of  it.  One 
million  two  hundred  thousand  married  people  have  been 


220 


The  He  aeon  Light. 


separated  and  their  homes  been  broken  up,  here  in  free, 
so-called  Christian  Anieriea,  within  the  past  generation ! 
Is  not  this  stupendous  fact  appalling,  and  may  we  not 
well  ask,  "Whither  are  we  tending?" 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD.* 

Silently,  persistently,  ceaselessly,  for  more  than  half 
a  century  have  the  invisible  boundary  lines,  which  early 
in  our  history  were  set  up  between  the  East  and  that 
portion  of  our  country  which  was  vaguely  denomi 
nated  as  the  "Great  West,"  receded,  until  now  we  often 
hear  the  question  asked,  "Where  is  the  West — where 
are  its  limits,  and  how  far  do  its  boundaries  extend?" 
Technically  speaking,  it  has  vanished,  its  wild  and 
woolly  flavor  has  disappeared,  and  it  is  no  longer  the 
great  stamping-ground  of  the  untutored  cowboy,  or 
the  primitive  dwelling  place  of  a  non-conventional,  non- 
producing  population,  dependent  upon  the  East  for  all 
the  necessaries  as  well  as  the  luxuries  of  life.  The 
mighty  primeval  wilderness  is  a  thing  of  the  past.  The 
wide-stretching  and  uncultivated  prairie  is  but  a  memory, 
for  it  is  now  dotted  with  towns  and  cities,  and  its  still 
air  is  stirred  by  the  whir  of  the  countless  wheels  of 
industry;  its  great  canons  and  its  once  silent  plains  echo 
the  rush  of  the  Iron  Horse  and  the  mighty  stir  of  traffic. 

Says  AVilliam  R.  Lighton  in  the  July  number  of  The 
Outlook:  "Within  a  very  few  years  it  will  be  seen  of 
all  men  that  'the  West'  is  no  longer  a  wild  and  woolly 
sort  of  No-Man's-Land,  where  spurred  and  pistoled 
bravos  do  nothing  all  day  long  but  fling  defiance  in  the 
face  of  heaven  and  its  laws;  it  will  be  seen  that  'the 
"\\  est'  has,  by  hard,  patient,  persistent  labor,  won  an 
unequivocal  station  and  dignity  as  the  chief  source  of 
the  world's  food  supply.  Very  few  persons  appreciate 
the  volume  of  traffic  in  western  foodstuffs.  Secretary 
Shaw,  in  a  recent  address  in  Chicago,  declared  that  a 
single  western  city  (Minneapolis)  now  manufactures  and 
sends  abroad  a  carload  of  flour  for  every  ten  minutes  of 
day  and  night,  the  year  round.  He  said  also  that  the 
Detroit  River  (one  of  the  links  in  the  Great  Lakes 
traffic)  carries  four  times  as  much  tonnage  as  does  the 
Suez  Canal.  The  significance  of  these  figures  is  tremen 
dous;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  they  represent 
only  a  small  fraction  of  the  whole  commerce.  Since  1890 
the  trans-Mississippi  country  has  discovered  that  the 
logical  outlet  for  its  export  trade  is  by  way  of  the  gulf 
ports,  rather  than  by  New  York  and  Baltimore;  a  very 
large  proportion  of  western  meat  and  grain  and  flour  is 
now  sent  to  the  South,  and  thence  to  Europe,  with  a 
large  decrease  in  cost  of  transportation.  The  West  is 
thus  evolving  a  commercial  independence  of  the  Eastern 
States,  saving  to  itself  the  percentage  once  paid  to  east 
ern  middlemen. 

"Heretofore  the  bulk  of  exported  foodstuffs  has  gone 

to  Europe,  but  within  three  or  four  years  Asiatic  markets 

have  begun  to  yawn   for  American  corn  and  wheat.     In 

1901,    for    the    first    time   in    her   history,    Nebraska    sent 

•October  11.  1903. 

221 


trainloads  of  grain  across  the  mountains  to  the  Pacific 
ports,  for  shipment  to  India  and  China.  This  is  but  the 
beginning." 

This  industrial  supremacy  is  not  by  any  means  the  only 
encouraging  feature  in  the  life  of  the  great  West  today, 
for  from  the  same  authority  above  quoted  we  learn  that, 
"If  you  will  look  at  the  matter  without  prejudice,  you 
will  discover  that  the  balance  of  the  law-abiding  spirit 
is  decidedly  in  favor  of  the  West.  In  proportion  to 
population,  there  is  today  twice  as  much  crime  in  Massa 
chusetts  as  in  Nebraska." 

In  matters  of  education  the  balance  lies  in  favor  of 
the  West.  Says  the  same  writer:  "In  proportion  to 
population,  Nebraska's  expenditure  for  educational  pur 
poses  is  annually  twice  as  great  as  that  of  Massachusetts; 
and  in  the  same  proportion  illiteracy  is  reduced  by  one- 
half.  Prairies  and  mountains  are  speckled  with  college 
towns.  In  point  of  efficiency  in  preparing  men  and 
women  for  the  serious  business  of  life,  western  educa^ 
tional  institutions  are  second  to  none.  Some  of  the  great 
est  industrial  feats  of  this  generation  have  been  wrought 
in  the  Far  West  by  men  born,  bred  and  educated  on  the 
sunset  side  of  the  Missouri." 

This  great,  real  West,  extending  from  Illinois  to  Cali 
fornia,  is  not  only  "the  inexhaustible  food  garden  of  the 
world,"  but  it  is  the  modern  Land  of  Promise,  the  desired 
Canaan  of  modern  civilization  for  which  the  ages  have 
unknowingly  waited.  In  God's  providence,  which  kept 
it  hidden  from  the  knowledge  of  the  world  for  so  many 
long  centuries,  there  was  no  blind  Chance,  but  an  infinite 
Purpose  for  the  good  of  the  race.  It  was  designed  for 
the  home  of  Freedom,  for  the  kingdom  of  the  sovereign 
citizen,  and  here  is  his  broad,  open  gateway  to  the  Orient, 
the  pathway  for  the  Flag  which  heralds  all  that  is  best 
and  highest  for  humanity. 

There  have  been  no  accidents  in  our  history,  and  this 
gradual,  glorious  unfoldment  of  the  great  West  of  our 
continent  presages  not  only  a  marvelous  destiny  for  our 
republic,  but  sublimer  hopes  for  Freedom,  in  which  the 
whole  world  shall  share.  God's  finger  is  upon  the  main 
spring  of  our  destiny,  and  this  great  land  of  Freedom 
with  its  golden  West  shall  yet  become  the  beacon  light 
of  the  world. 

The  mighty  prairies,  billowed  with  vast  oceans  of  grain, 
and  dotted  with  populous  towns  and  cities;  the  great 
valleys,  orchard-crowned  and  vineyard-laden,  filled  with 
happy,  prosperous  homes  and  opulent  industries,  with 
schools  and  churches,  in  whose  trail  follow  the  printing 
press  and  the  daily  newspaper— this  boundless  West, 
with  its  climatic  wealth,  its  fruitful  soil  and  unhindered 
sunshine,  joined  to  our  earlier  settled  eastern  borders, 
makes  a  domain  of  which  Freedom  may  well  be  proud, 
and  where,  firmly  intrenched,  she  is  well-nigh  invincible. 
It  is  the  land  where  the  best  hopes  of  the  race  are 
centered,  and  out  from  which  shall  flow  the  great  educa 
tional  tides,  and  the  tides  of  Christianity  that  shall 
redeem  the  race  from  tyranny,  superstition  and  barbar 
ism.  Plymouth  Rock  was  the  threshold  of  a  new  future, 
of  a  domain  that  should  stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the 


Editorial  Writings. 


gates  of  the  sunset,  and   where   Freedom   should   unfurl 
her  banners  to  the  world. 

Our  Puritan  ancestors,  while  they  firmly  believed  in 
an  overruling  Providence,  had  no  conception  of  the  possi 
bilities  in  stare  tor  this  New  World.  But  when  the  story 
of  all  the  centuries  is  written  we  shall  find  that  Christian 
America  was  the  most  powerful  instrument  in  the  hand 
of  God  for  uplifting  the  world. 


PLANT  TREES.* 

"Oh,  what  a  thought  was  that  when  God  thought  of  a 
tree!"  The  grandeur  and  beauty  of  these  wonderful 
"natural  spires  and  minarets  and  turrets  in  ever-living 
green"  appeals  most  powerfully  to  the  earnest  lover  of 
Nature. 

"The  groves  were  God's  first  temples,"  says  the  poet, 
and  they  are  more  beautiful  than  the  most  magnificent 
ones  ever  reared  by  human  hands,  and  their  whispered 
wind-born  symphonies  are  an  inspiration  to  lift  the 
thoughts  of  men  to  something  higher  than  the  petty 
a  if  airs  of  everyday  life. 

It  has  been  truly  said:  "Ignore  the  subject  as  we  may, 
the  loss  of  the  forests  has  a  retroactive  effect  upon  the 
people,  and  the  climatic  conditions  best  suited  for  the 
growth  of  trees  are  also  best  suited  for  the  growth  and 
development  of  man.  It  is  noteworthy  that  in  countries 
where  forests  have  been  laid  waste  without  renewal  by 
man  or  Nature,  the  inhabitants  have  generally  deterio 
rated." 

Nature  has  been  very  lavish  in  her  gift  of  trees  to 
California.  Here  she  has  reared  the  majestic  sequoias, 
those  monarchs  that  have  survived  the  centuries,  whicli 
often  attain  the  height  of  three  hundred  or  three  hun 
dred  and  twenty  feet.  Here  also  are  the  sugar,  the 
yellow  and  the  Jeifrey  pine,  often  growing  to  the  height 
of  more  than  two  hundred  feet.  Then  there  is  the 
beautiful  Douglas  spruce,  which  in  the  Sierra  region 
often  grows  to  the  height  of  three  hundred  to  four  hun 
dred  and  fifty  feet;  while  our  noble  firs  and  world- 
renowned  redwoods  seem  like  the  mighty  sentinels  of 
Time,  proclaiming  the  possibility  of  forest  grandeur  here 
such  as  exists  nowhere  else  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 

Among  the  most  attractive  and  beautiful  sights  that 
Japan  has  to  offer  the  traveler  and  sightseer,  there  is 
nothing  that  so  excites  the  admiration  as  the  road  to 
Nikko,  which  is  a  great  avenue  of  trees,  thirty  miles  long. 
A  recent  writer  says  of  it: 

But  the  trees!  If  one  finds  it  difficult  to  describe 
the  temples,  one  is  utterly  at  a  loss  for  adjectives 
that  shall  fitly  paint  the  beautiful  cryptomerias, 
which,  after  all,  are  Xikko's  chief  wealth  and  beauty. 
An  avenue  of  these  splendid  pines,  thirty  miles  long, 
leads  up  to  the  sacred  shrines.  On  either  side  of  the 
road  stand  these  great  sentinels,  often  in  rows  four 
deep,  interweaving  their  branches  overhead  and  form 
ing  a  complete  arched  passageway  thirty  miles  in 
length,  to  the  temples  beyond.  When  one  reaches 

"October  4,  1903. 


the  temples,  one  finds  himself  in  a  grove  of  these 
huge  giants  of  past  centuries,  thousands  and  thou 
sands  of  them,  standing  erect  and  sentinel-like  on 
the  hillside,  crowning  every  swelling  mound  of  earth, 
springing  up  in  every  temple  courtyard,  overshadow 
ing  every  magnificent  lacquer  shrine.  These,  indeed, 
are  Xikko's  true  glory.  These  dwarf  and  belittle  the 
temples  made  by  man,  magnificent  as  they  are,  prov 
ing  once  more  how  much  more  beautiful  and  glorious 
are  God's  first  temples  than  anything  that  the  highest 
skill  and  art  of  man  can  attain. 

The  traditional  story  regarding  them  is  worth  record- 

ing: 

It  is  said  that  when  the  great  leyasu  demanded 
contributions  for  this  temple  from  the  daimios  in  all 
parts  of  Japan,  some  sent  money,  some  sent  mag 
nificent  bronzes,  and  others  great  stone  lanterns  of 
curious  workmanship;  but  one  daimio  sent  word  that 
he  was  poor  and  could  not  contribute  money,  or 
carvings,  or  lanterns,  but  that  he  would  plant  some 
trees.  So  he  sent  his  servants  to  plant  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  little  pine  trees,  wherever  they 
could  find  soil  for  their  rootlets.  And  now  the  fame 
of  this  Japanese  leads  all  the  rest,  for  while  the 
donors  of  old  lanterns  are  forgotten,  the  story  of  the 
daimio  who  planted  the  trees  is  told  to  the  children 
and  the  children's  children,  through  all  the  generations 
of  those  who  care  for  Xikko  the  Magnificent. 

With  all  that  Nature  has  done  for  us,  generous  as  she 
has  been  with  her  gift  of  trees,  and  her  tender  care  in 
nurturing  them,  what  hinders  our  having  avenues  like 
this  all  along  our  highways  and  our  cities'  streets 
throughout  the  State?  If  California  were  fully  awake  to 
the  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  trees,  she  might  in  this 
respect  become  in  a  few  years  the  wonder  and  admira 
tion  of  the  world.  Let  us  adopt  at  once  some  system  of 
tree  planting  along  our  city  streets  that  shall  show  a 
just  appreciation  of  the  wonderful  tree  wealth  that  is 
ours,  and  the  marvelous  possibilities  in  tree  culture  that 
we  may  command. 

"He  plants  the  forest's  heritage, 
The  harvest  of  the  coming  age, 
The  joy  that  unborn  eyes  shall  see — 
These  things  he  plants  who  plants  a  tree." 


THE  MECCA  OF  FREEDOM.* 

Former  denizens  of  Los  Angeles  who  come  back  to  us 
after  an  absence  of  a  couple  of  decades  find  little  with 
which  they  were  familiar  in  the  Los  Angeles  of  other 
days.  Old  landmarks  have  vanished,  even  the  hills  have 
been  changed,  and  the  broad  levels  are  covered  with  beau 
tiful  homes  of  varied  and  modern  architecture,  and  the 
city  has  expanded  toward  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
stretched  outward  toward  every  point  of  the  compass, 
leaving  behind  it  almost  everything  that  is  not  modern 
and  up  to  date. 

The  old  Mission  Church  near  the  Plaza  still  smiles  in 
the  sunlight,  and  its  hoary  old  walls  catch  the  golden 
glint  of  the  sunbeams  as  of  yore,  while  its  tall  palms 
*August  30,  1903. 


222 


The  Dai 1 i/ 


drop  their  swaying  shadows  upon  the  grass,  and  the 
mission  bells  stir  the  silence  of  the  summer  air.  Only  a 
part  of  ancient  Sonoratown  lingers.  The  old  adobes  are, 
mam-  of  them,  crumbling,  and  some  of  them  are  being 
crowded  by  more  modern  dwellings.  The  black-eyed 
senoras  and  senoritas  feel  hardly  at  home  upon  its  streets, 
for  does  not  the  swift  electric  car  break  with  its  noisy 
rush  the  brooding  silence  of  the  past,  and  tell  only  of 
the  busy  life  of  today?  Even  the  old  cemetery's  walls 
where  their  dead  sleep  are  dropping  into  decay,  and 
Greed  has  reared  the  tall  derrick  right  by  the  gates  of 
their  city  of  the  dead.  All  about  them  has  the  modern 
city  crept,  and  the  clang  of  traffic  is  heard  and  modern 
architecture  confronts  them  until  they  feel  that  the  old 
past  which  they  so  loved  has  utterly  vanished. 

Farther  down  town  we  see  the  tall  sky-scrapers  rising, 
and  immense  business  blocks  in  process  of  erection, 
which  are  different  from  anything  Los  Angeles  knew  ten 
or  fifteen  years  ago.  They  are  fireproof,  and  their  great 
iron  girders  tower  far  upward  above  the  other  buildings 
that  surround  them,  as  if  they  were  reaching  for  the 
stars.  Then  how  the  streets  run  on  and  on  to  the 
southward !  Gone  are  the  old  orange  groves  and  vine 
yards  that  lifted  their  emerald  branches  to  the  sun;  gone 
the  quietness  of  those  outlying  streets  and  the  unpeopled 
distances.  The  rush,  the  stir  and  the  populousness  of 
growing  life  are  about  us  everywnere.  We  are  in  God's 
country,  where  the  future  beckons,  and  where  Promise, 
spelt  with  the  biggest  P,  lurks  and  whispers  to  us  of 
coming  greatness  and  good.  This  land  is  to  be  the  Mecca 
of  Freedom,  the  Promised  Land,  where  shall  blossom  and 
ripen  the  golden  fruitage  of  her  highest  hopes. 

Religious  sentiment  and  educational  wealth  are  strong 
here,  and  they  will  lay  secure  foundations  for  that  great 
ness  which  springs  from  these  sources.  The  modern  cul 
ture  of  the  Puritan  East  is  coming  to  us  daily,  and  we  are 
building  churches  and  institutions  of  learning  without 
number.  There  is  a  Providence  shaping  our  ends  and 
gradually  molding  the  public  character  of  this  people 
so  that  we  may  become  the  fit  custodians  of  all  that  is 
best  and  highest  in  Christian  patriotism  and  Christian 
civilization. 


THE  DAILY  NEWSPAPER.* 

How  many  and  varied  are  the  agencies  which  Provi 
dence  makes  use  of  in  promoting  the  forward  march 
of  civilization  and  the  advancement  of  the  race!  And 
perhaps  in  all  the  wide  realm  of  human  agencies  which 
He  uses  there  is  no  force  outside  of  Christianity  that 
tells  more  for  human  progress  than  the  daily  news 
paper.  A  glance  through  the  exchanges  which  come 
daily  into  a  metropolitan  newspaper  office  will  give  a 
person  some  idea  of  the  wonderful  activity  of  this 
busy  work-a-day  world.  The  history  of  a  world's  day— 
a  single  twenty-four  hours— is  something  marvelous.  It 
holds  comedies  more  curious  than  ever  were  written  by 
•September  27,  1903. 


human  pen.  It  has  farces  more  ludicrous  than  ever 
stirred  an  audience  to  tumultuous  laughter.  It  witnesses 
tragedies  more  ternole  than  human  language  ever  de 
picted.  It  is  an  ever-changing  panorama,  a  shifting 
scene  of  lights  and  shadows,  of  struggle  and  success,  of 
laughter  and  despair. 

Could  the  pen  of  the  journalist  portray  to  the  lightest 
heart-throb,  to  the  minutest  act,  and  the  smallest  spoken 
word,  the  life  of  a  single  city  for  a  single  day  only,  it 
would  be  such  a  drama  as  would  put  to  blush  the  genius 
of  a  Shakespeare,  or  the  most  brilliant  efforts  of  a 
Milton  or  a  Dante.  Could  The  Times  gives  its  readers 
all  of  yesterday,  with  every  impress  made  upon  it  by  the 
entire  people  of  Los  Angeles,  the  paper  would  be  read 
with  a  wonder  beyond  words,  with  a  breathless  and 
intense  interest. 

But  it  is  these  everyday  events  which  make  history — • 
these  individual  actions  and  emotions  which  are  the 
momentum  of  human  progress.  The  live  journal  gathers 
up  the  straws  which  are  afloat  upon  the  current,  and 
which  serve  to  point  out  the  direction  in  which  the  tide 
is  flowing.  With  all  the  varying  interests  which  it  touches 
and  the  incidents  which  it  notes,  it  does  nothing  more 
than  reach  the  surface  of  things.  The  entire  story  of  a 
single  day  has  never  been  written. 

Dependent  as  we  are  upon  the  daily  paper,  it  is  a 
mystery  to  the  present  time  how  the  world  ever  got  on 
simply  with  a  weekly  journal.  If  the  world  had  held  as 
many  people  then  as  now  it  could  not  have  done  so.  The 
daily  newspaper  is  needed  now,  not  only  as  a  maker 
of  history,  as  a  disseminator  of  the  news,  as  a  record 
of  progress,  but  as  a  detective.  The  worst  enemy  of 
crime  is  the  enterprising,  outspoken  newspaper.  It  is 
Argus-eyed,  and  the  criminal  finds  it  everywhere  difficult 
to  escape  from  its  omnipresent  glance.  He  fears  it  as 
he  fears  the  majesty  of  the  law  which  he  has  outraged. 
He  may  go  to  the  desert,  and  it  will  follow  him ;  to  the 
most  distant  lands,  and  it  confronts  him  still.  It  is 
oftener  through  the  newspaper  than  any  other  agency 
that  he  is  unable  to  escape  the  consequences  of  his 
crimes,  for  it  is  the  voice  of  public  sentiment,  and  it 
will  not  let  him  go  unpunished.  No  gigantic  evil  can 
long  exist  when  its  corruption  is  daily  laid  bare  by  the 
universal  press  before  the  eyes  of  a  law-respecting  people. 

The  newspaper  is  also  a  potent  factor  in  immigration. 
What  did  the  populous  Fast  know  of  this  distant  Pacific 
Slope  before  the  daily  journals  of  the  Coast  were  estab 
lished?  The  rumors  of  its  greatness  and  its  fertility, 
and  its  climatic  charms,  were  as  idle  tales  to  those  upon 
the  other  side  of  the  continent.  But  the  pictures  of 
its  charms  thrust  upon  them  daily,  their  interest  became 
enlisted,  and  now  there  is  scarce  a  city  or  town  upon 
the  Atlantic  borders,  or  in  the  great  midland  valleys 
of  the  continent,  where  the  story  of  the  Pacific  Coast  is 
not  read,  attracting  in  this  direction  a  tide  of  immi 
gration  that  is  fast  overflowing  the  whole  State. 

In  no  portion  of  the  country  is  the  journalistic  activity 
of  California  excelled.  The  number  of  newspapers 
established  in  this  State  is  a  peculiar  feature  of  its 


223 


Editorial  Writings. 


progress.  No  sooner  is  a  new  town  started  than  conies 
the  demand  for  a  newspaper.  These  papers,  too,  are 
generally  well  sustained,  and  they  can  only  be  regarded 
as  indices  of  the  intelligent  and  progressive  character 
of  the  people  who  are  flocking  to  this  Coast.  Well- 
sustained,  honest  and  fearless  journals  will  always 
attract  homeseekers,  and  will  do  their  part  in  the  work 
of  upbuilding  the  State.  They  will  make  crime  less  ram 
pant  and  Progress  surer  footed  in  its  onward  march. 
The  high-toned,  fearless  and  courageous  journal  is  the 
good  physician  who  controls  the  pulse  of  public  senti 
ment  and  lessens  the  fevered  heart-throbs  of  the  world. 


WHAT  SHALL  THE  END  BE? 

The  thoughtful  mind  finds  great  delight  in  following 
the  achievements  of  Science,  and  dwelling  upon  the  possi 
bilities  that  may  result  therefrom.  With  what  Science 
has  already  accomplished  we  may  well  feel  that  there 
need  be  scarcely  a  limit  to  the  achievements  of  our 
scientific  future,  and  that  at  no  distant  period  the  isola 
tion  of  nations  will  be  a  thing  impossible,  for  all  will 
be  linked  together,  though  seas  divide  them,  in  such  a 
way  as  to  make  the  life  of  all  commingle.  The  unseen 
nerves  of  the  air  are  thrilling  beneath  the  intelligence 
of  man's  will.  Already,  as  Marconi  has  fully  demon 
strated,  a  person  may  stand  upon  the  shores  of  this 
continent  and  converse  without  the  aid  of  wires  with  his 
friends  in  the  Old  World.  The  sea  is  no  barrier  to 
speech,  and  with  an  enlarged  spectograph  at  our  com 
mand  it  may  not  be  to  our  vision.  A  recent  writer  has 
suggested  that  if  we  wish  knowledge  of  our  friends 
abroad,  "we  could  soon  learn  by  telephone  where  and  how 
they  were,  and  could  commune  with  them  by  holding  up 
a  dispatch  before  a  mirror  for  their  inspection." 

Science  is  just  beginning  to  discover  the  power  and 
the  possibilities  which  lie  concealed  in  the  electrical  pul 
sations  of  the  atmosphere,  and  it  is  every  day  reaching 
out  to  subjugate  them  to  its  use.  We  are  just  begin 
ning  to  realize  the  vastness  of  the  material  which  Provi 
dence  has  placed  within  our  reach  for  the  advancement 
of  human  knowledge,  and  to  realize  that  universal  law 
governs  all  things ;  and  let  us  once  discover  the  key 
which  unlocks  that  law,  and  lo!  man  is  master  of  the 
universe,  which  he  may  make  subject  to  his  will.  In 
view  of  the  rapid  march  of  discovery  and  invention,  we 
may  well  say  that  there  is  nothing  too  wonderful  to 
be  possible,  and  we  may  find  a  new  and  larger  meaning 
in  the  scriptural  injunction  given  by  Jehovah  to  Adam, 
"Replenish  the  earth  and  subdue  it." 

The  heart  of^  man  thrills  with  hope  in  view  of  the 
conquest  over  Nature  that  he  has  already  made,  and 
new  revelations,  still  undreamed  of,  may  yet  be  unrolled, 
till  this  New  Century  stands  out  brilliant  in  its  light  of 
discovery  and  progress. 

Among  other  important  discoveries  of  the  past  year 
or  two  is  that  of  Jacques  Loeb,  of  the  University  of 
Chicago,  who,  in  the  course  of  his  investigations,  "brought 


forward  experimental  proof  of  the  vital  influence  in 
life  phenomena  of  those  solutions  of  salts  and  acids 
which  conduct  and  likewise  give  rise  to  electricity. 
With  seawater  of  varying  strength  he  was  able  to  bring 
about  artificial  fertilization.  Eggs  that  had  known  no 
contact  with  the  male  cells  developed  into  normal  living 
beings.  Biological  theories  of  half  a  century  went  down 
in  a  day.  Then  Prof.  Albert  P.  Matthews,  a  protege  of 
the  excellent  Prof.  Wilson  of  Columbia,  and  now  pro 
fessor  of  physiological  chemistry  in  the  same  university 
with  Prof.  Loeb,  took  up  these  fecund  ideas.  He  applied 
them  to  the  phenomena  of  nervous  action,  showing  how 
this  most  mysterious  and  baffling  of  puzzles  might  be 
simply  and  clearly  explained  by  electrical  action.  The 
nerves  are  jelly-like  solutions  of  highly-phosphorized 
fatty  bodies,  inclosed  in  a  thin,  non-conducting  sheath. 
The  albuminous  bodies  inside  are  charged  with  positive 
electricity,  and  these  charges  give  rise  to,  they  induce  a 
negative  charge  in  the  surrounding  water.  A  slight 
jar,  beat,  a  flash  of  light,  the  presence  of  a  new  supply 
of  food  materials,  may  break  this  delicate  equilibrium; 
the  nerve  'current'  traveling  to  and  from  the  brain  is 
the  result." 

In  the  field  of  electrical  research  there  seems  to  be 
scarcely  a  limit  to  the  wonderful  discoveries  accom 
plished.  In  a  recent  number  of  Harper's  Weekly  we 
find  the  following: 

Prof.  Loeb's  discovery  of  this  year,  the  second  of 
those  which  will  make  the  Chicago  meeting  memor 
able,  was  the  application  of  the  same  theory  of  elec 
trical  charges  to  questions  of  life  and  death.  The 
fresh  spawn  of  sea-urchins,  unfertilized,  die  in  a  few 
hours.  Prof.  Loeb  put  them  in  a  cyanide  solution 
and  kept  them  for  seven  days.  This  may  be  called 
the  first  step  in  the  scientific  search  for  immortal 
life.  Still  another  paper  from  this  same  unwearied 
investigator  sought  to  prove  that  the  vital  energy 
supplied  by  food  is  due  to  the  electricity  it  affords 
rather  than  to  the  heat  it  develops,  as  present-day 
physiology  holds;  in  brief,  that  all  life  actions  are 
of  an  electro-dynamical  nature. 

In  view  of  these  discoveries  we  may  well  exclaim, 
How  little  we  have  known,  and  how  blindly  have  we 
walked  the  paths  of  life,  unheeding  the  marvels  of  the 
universe  within  our  reach!  What  shall  the  end  be? 


BEAUTIFYING  OUR  SCHOOLS. 

Beauty  is  beginning  to  be  recognized  as  one  of  the 
most  potent  factors  in  the  formation  of  well-rounded 
and  fully-developed  character.  As  education  assumes 
higher  standards  and  the  needs  of  childhood  are  more 
fully  discerned,  the  determination  to  make  more  attrac 
tive  the  school  life  of  our  children  is  becoming  more 
pronounced,  and  we  are  not  satisfied  with  what  the  past 
had  to  offer — four  bare  white  walls,  with  hard,  unpolished 
wooden  benches,  with  no  statues  or  pictures  to  delight  the 
eye,  no  blade  of  grass,  or  flower,  or  tree  within  the  yard 
surrounding  the  school  building;  nothing  to  please  the 
fancy  of  the  child  or  to  inspire  its  imagination  and 
quicken  its  thoughts. 


224 


Christmas  Dai/. 


But  today  the  progressive  schools  of  the  country  are         , 
beautiful   temples    of    learning,    made    charming    within 
by  pictures  and  other  fine  works  of  art,  and  without  by 
trees  and  flowers,  lovely  landscape  gardens  in  which  the 
children  take  pride  and  delight. 

It  is  about  ten  years  since  the  Eastern  States  awoke 
to  the  importance  of  this  movement,  and  since  then  the 
work  has  been  going  steadily  onward,  until  it  has  ex 
tended  itself  throughout  the  country. 

It  was  Ruskin,  with  his  love  of  the  beautiful,  who  first 
roused  Europe  to  this  need  of  better  adornment  for  her 
schools.  Bravely  has  she  responded,  and  today  she  can 
count  81,000  school  gardens  which  are  the  delight  of  her 
rising  generation. 

This  New  World  has  been  quick  to  catch  this  spirit 
ot  enthusiasm  for  higher  beauty,  and  to  adopt  the  opin 
ion  of  the  wise  bishop  who  said,  when  being  remonstrated 
with  for  giving  nis  garden  over  wholly  to  flowers  instead 
of  growing  salads  also,  "Ah,  the  beautiful  is  as  useful 
as  the  useful.  I'm  not  sure  but  it's  more  so."  As  a 
recent  writer  upon  this  subject  has  said:  "The  'school 
beautiful'  enthusiasts  believe  that  by  ennobling  the  en 
vironment  of  children,  and  cultivating  in  them  a  love  of 
painting,  sculpture  and  flowers,  they  are  adding  to  the 
higher  education  an  influence  not  imparted  by  any  text 
book." 

These  little  ones  thus  trained  may  eventually  find 
through  their  quickened  vision  not  only  "sermons  in 
stones  and  songs  in  running  brooks,"  but  they  may  find 
that  "flowers  are  the  alphabet  of  angels,"  which  are 
written  lessons  of  goodness  and  of  love,  and  poems  of 
(iod's  care.  The  flower  is  ofttimes  a  wonderful  teacher, 
and  the  tall  tree  a  powerful  orator. 

We  well  remember  the  exclamation  of  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  which  we  first  read  in  a  treeless  land:  "Oh, 
what  a  thought  was  that  when  God  thought  of  a  tree!" 
It  was  a  thought  which  will  influence  all  the  ages  and 
will  lift  up  the  child-mind  to  the  infinite  Creator  who 
gave  it  life.  "How  does  the  tree  grow,  and  what  lifts 
it  up  so  high  above  the  ground?  Who  paints  the  flow 
ers,  and  what  makes  them  smell  so  sweet?"  are  ques 
tions  that  mean  infinitely  more  for  the  child's  develop 
ment  than  the  full  formula  "two  and  two  are  tour"  and 
"three  from  six  leaves  three."  The  flowers  and  the  trees 
help  him  to  look  up;  the  pictures  and  the  sculptures, 
copies  of  the  old  masters,  turn  his  thoughts  backward, 
till  he  wishes  to  know  more  of  that  vanished  past  and 
more  of  that  infinite  Power  which  gives  color  and  fra 
grance  to  the  flowers  and  lifts  the  trees  above  his  head. 
Then  let  this  work  of  school  decoration  progress,  for 
we  cannot  estimate  the  value  of  its  influence  upon  the 
rising  generation. 

And  in  addition  to  this,  in  various  cities  "school  dec 
oration  has  extended  its  influence  to  the  neighborhood. 
'School  beautiful'  promoters  hope  that  the  public  schools 
of  the  future  will  not  only  have  paintings  on  their  walls 
and  flowers  in  the  garden,  but  will  l>e  a  community  cen 
ter  wherein  parents  may  meet  with  children  and  teach- 

225 


ers  for  lectures,  concerts  and  social  intercourse.  Many 
a  principal  declares  that  the  beautifying  has  already  ltd 
to  a  closer  relationship  between  the  school  and  its 
patrons." 

May  the  outreach  of  the  Xew  Century  continue  to  be 
toward  higher  development  along  esthetic  lines,  as  well 
as  in  the  whole  domain  of  public  education;  then  indeed 
shall  our  schools  be  a  bulwark  of  safety  for  the  Nation. 


WHAT  CHRISTMAS   DAY  EMBODIES. 

Christmas  is  a  day  that  is  pregnant  with  meaning  for 
the  whole  human  race.  It  has  meaning  that  is  infinite, 
that  compasses  the  immortal  nature  of  man;  it  opens  the 
golden  door  of  hope  to  him;  it  gives  wings  to  Progress, 
and  it  furnishes  the  basis  of  all  Christian  civilization. 

Before  the  world's  first  Christmas  the  fullness  of 
infinite  love  had  not  arisen  upon  the  earth.  The  dark 
and  heavy  shadows  of  doubt  lay  everywhere,  and  men 
walked  in  the  impenetrable  gloom  of  uncertainty.  How 
often  was  the  question  asked,  "If  a  man  die  shall  he 
live  again?"  The  belief  in  the  universal  brotherhood  of 
the  race  was  not  accepted.  The  golden  key  of  Christ's 
love  had  not  unlocked  the  door  to  men's  hearts.  "Glory 
to  God  in  the  highest,  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men," 
had  not  been  sung  until  the  angels  woke  the  anthem 
when  Christ  was  born.  And  its  echoes  have  been  ringing 
down  the  ages  ever  since  that  first  Christmas  dawn.  It 
has  made  possible  Today,  with  all  its  enlightenment,  its 
benefactions,  and  its  sense  of  universal  brotherhood. 

Dr.  Storrs,  in  his  interesting  work,  "The  Divine  Origin 
of  Christianity  as  Indicated  by  Its  Historical  Effects," 
points  out  these  eight  results  of  Christianity:  "It 
brought,  first,  a  new  conception  of  God;  second,  a  new 
conception  of  man;  third,  a  new  principle  of  the  duty 
of  man  to  God;  fourth,  a  new  principle  of  the  duty  of 
man  to  man;  with,  fifth,  a  new  teaching  of  the  duty  of 
nations  to  each  other;  it  has  had  a  constantly  inspiring 
effect,  sixth,  on  the  mental  culture  of  mankind;  seventh, 
on  the  moral  culture  of  mankind,  and,  eighth,  on  the 
world's  hope  of  progress." 

Surely  with  these  results  springing  from  it,  it  should 
be  the  day  of  days  to  man;  a  day  that  we  should  keep 
joyously,  reverently  and  thankfully.  To  blot  out  the  day 
from  human  history  would  be  like  throwing  «  pall  of 
blackness  over  the  whole  past  and  future  of  the  human 
race.  It  would  be  like  binding  all  nations  with  the 
heavy  chains  of  barbarism;  it  would  be  like  putting  out 
the  sun  in  our  spiritual  heavens  and  leaving  us  to  wan 
der  in  the  darkness  of  doubt  and  despair. 

Take  from  us  the  Christ  whose  birth  we  commemorate 
on  Christmas  Day  and  we  take  all  that  illumines  with 
brightness  the  paths  of  life;  all  that  fills  the  heart  with 
hope  and  an  enduring  gladness.  As  the  Rev.  Newell 
Dwight  Hillis  says  in  his  work,  "The  Influence  of  Christ 
in  Modern  Life:"  "Today  with  the  great  scholar  we  may 
well  exclaim,  'Calvin  and  Edwards  make  me  fear  and 
tremble;  Bishop  Butler  makes  me  to  be  amazed;  Liddon 


Editorial  Writings. 


and  Beecher  make  me  believe;  but  Jesus  Christ  makes 
me  hope  and  love.'  O  happy  generation  in  the  midst 
of  which  stands  the  divine  Savior,  teaching  our  age  how 
love  casts  out  all  fear  and  fulfills  all  law.  In  the  realm 
of  state  our  citizens  have  become  patriots — not  through 
fear  of  the  traitor's  death,  but  through  love  of  home  and 
native  land.  In  the  realm  of  the  beautiful  our  artists 
are  achieving  excellence — not  through  hatred  of  ugliness, 
but  through  love  of  beautiful  faces  and  landscapes.  In 
the  realm  of  higher  education  our  city  is  being  pro 
foundly  influenced— not  because  these  teachers  hate 
falsehood,  but  because  tney  have  a  mighty  love  for 
truth.  .  .  .  Thus  all  the  columns  of  society  are 
journeying  upward — not  because  they  are  fleeing  away 
from  the  thunder  of  Sinai,  but  because  they  are  allured 
upward  by  the  beauty  of  Calvary." 

Well,  then,  may  we  commemorate  the  beautiful  Christ 
mas  Day,  and  celebrate  it  with  hearts  overflowing  with 
love,  not  only  for  those  who  are  bound  to  us  by  the  strong 
ties  of  relationship,  but  by  the  ties  of  human  need  and 
fellowship.  Let  us  remember  the  poor  as  well  as  those 
who  are  especially  dear  to  us,  and  help  to  swell  anew 
the  glorious  anthem  the  angels  sang  on  the  world's  first 
Christmas,  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


THE  EXTENT  OF  OUR  DOMAIN.* 

This  great  country  of  ours  at  the  time  when  the  Dec 
laration  of  Independence  was  issued  to  the  world  was 
but  a  mere  infant  in  size  compared  with  what  it  is  today. 
How  closely  it  hugged  our  Atlantic  borders,  while  the 
vast  West  behind  it  was  practically  further  from  its  life 
than  the  Old  World  is  today.  What  did  our  Revolu 
tionary  fathers  know  of  the  unpeopled  wildernesses  lying 
between  them  and  these  Pacific  shores?  And  never  once 
did  they  dream  of  the  march  of  American  civilization 
across  the  continent  upon  highways  bordered  by  bands 
of  steel,  while  across  the  mighty  distance  the  lightnings 
traversed  the  air,  the  swift  couriers  of  speech,  placing 
the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  dwellers  in  constant  communi 
cation  with  each  other.  We  have  grown  in  every  direc 
tion,  north,  south,  east  and  west,  and  we  take  pride  in 
the  great  land  over  which  floats  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

But  there  are  really  but  few  people,  even  among  the 
most  intelligent,  who  realize  fully  the  extent  of  our  do 
main.  Take,  for  instance,  Alaska.  But  few  people 
appreciate  what  an  empire  of  space  is  embraced  in  our 
Alaskan  possessions  alone.  The  lowest  boundary  is  50 
deg.  40  min.  north,  and  the  highest,  the  Arctic  Ocean. 
The  eastern  limit  is  130  deg.  west  of  Greenwich,  and  the 
western  187  deg.  »20  min.  San  Francisco  is  about  five 
hundred  miles  nearer  the  farthest  point  of  Maine  than 
it  is  to  the  western  coast  of  Attou,  the  most  remote  of 
the  Aleutian  Islands.  Thus  San  Francisco  is  only  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  miles  short  of  being  the  geograph 
ical  center  of  United  States  territory. 
•March  8,  1903. 


One-sixth  of  the  area  of  the  United  States  is  repre 
sented  by  our  Alaskan  possessions,  once  belonging  to 
the  Muscovite  Czar.  A  portion  of  this  Arctic  land  is  a 
region  girdled  with  fire,  for  it  is  the  seat  of  several 
active  volcanoes,  which  tower  thousands  of  feet  upward 
above  the  sea,  their  lofty  crests  mantled  with  eternal 
snows,  and  frowning  forever  upon  the  valleys  at  their 
base. 

Of  Alaska  a  recent  writer  says:  "Of  the  ethnologi- 
cally  interesting  aboriginal  inhabitants  of  Alaska — the 
Thlinket  Indians,  with  their  totem  poles,  the  clever 
Aleuts  in  their  kayaks  braving  the  sea,  the  jovial  Eski 
mos — I  did  not  propose  to  speak,  but  the  mention  of  the 
trading  companies  reminds  me  that  while  here  is  a 
country  that,  with  all  its  hardships  of  climate,  might  yet 
support  a  large  population  .  .  .  The  country  so  far 
has  been  formerly  merely  exploited.  .  .  .  An  area  of 
land  covering  nearly  600,000  square  miles,  even  if  situ 
ated  near  the  North  Pole,  must  show  considerable  diver 
sity  of  conditions,  and  cannot  be  described  by  wholesale 
characterizations.  The  information  regarding  Alaska 
is  now  increasing  almost  as  rapidly  as  that  of  Africa 
did  a  few  years  ago  as  a  result  of  systematic  explora 
tion.  We  find  that  there  is  as  good  an  opportunity  for 
a  population  of  over  two  millions  as  there  is  in  Norway, 
and  the  thousands  of  Americans  who  visit  annually  the 
fjords  and  glaciers  and  forest-clad  hills  of  Norway 
should  know  that  for  grandeur  and  variety  of  scenery 
of  the  same  sort,  their  home  possession  far  excels  that  of 
the  Scandinavian  peninsula." 

As  we  regard  the  facts  in  reference  to  the  extent  of 
Alaska  given  above,  and  the  growth  of  our  country  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific  borders,  what  a  grand  march 
i)f  empire  do  these  facts  suggest !  We  have  a  country 
upon  which  the  sun  never  sets.  As  its  first  rising  beams 
shed  their  light  upon  its  far  Atlantic  shores,  the  last 
warm  glow  of  the  sunset  is  resting  upon  those  farthest 
Aleutian  isles  that  lie  asleep  upon  the  waters  of  the 
Eastern  Hemisphere.  What  a  country!  and  what  a 
mighty  destiny  is  ours  if  we  be  but  true  to  liberty  and 
the  right ! 


SOME  EVILS  THAT  THREATEN  US. 

The  modern  world  has  much  to  contend  with  that  our 
older  civilization  knew  nothing  of.  There  are  pictures 
of  want  and  woe  and  wretchedness,  the  producing  cause 
of  which  did  not  exist  in  America  fifty  years  ago,  and 
thoughtful  men  are  asking  what  is  to  be  the  future  con 
dition  of  our  country  if  these  things  continue  and  are 
allowed  to  exert  a  molding  influence  upon  society.  The 
boycott  and  the  strike  are  bad  enough,  and  are  un- 
American  in  their  character.  They  strike  a  blow  at  the 
very  root  of  individual  independence  and  manhood.  They 
would  crush  the  very  foundation  stones  of  freedom,  the 
right  of  every  man  to  be  a  man,  to  dispose  of  his  labor 
as  he  sees  fit  and  at  his  own  price,  without  let  or  hind 
rance  from  those  who  demand  from  him  the  acceptance 


226 


"  Lest   We  Forget" 


of  certain  conditions  or  associations  before  he  shall  be 
free  to  exercise  his  right  as  a  free  man  in  this  respect. 

The  workingman  of  the  United  States  has  been  the 
glory  and  the  strength  of  this  country,  and  he  has  been 
in  advance  of  the  workingnien  of  other  countries,  be 
cause  he  has  been  intelligent  and  self-respecting.  He 
has  been  the  bone  and  sinew  and  the  strength  of  the  re 
public.  It  was  largely  the  workingmen  of  the  land  who 
carried  the  "thinking  bayonets"  that  gave  us  the  vic 
tory  in  the  Civil  War,  and  saved  the  life  of  the  Union. 
Loyal  hearts  were  the  men  who  left  forge  and  plow  and 
hammer  and  all  the  utensils  of  labor  to  fight  their  coun 
try's  battles.  Noble  sons  of  noble  sires  who  fought  on 
bloody  battlefields  that  the  government  of  the  people 
and  for  the  people  and  by  the  people  should  not  perish 
from  the  earth.  Such  men  as  these,  lovers  of  human 
liberty  and  right,  we  do  not  find  engaged  in  the  unlaw 
ful  boycott  and  strike  which  so  threaten  the  peace  and 
prosperity  and  the  good  name  of  the  communities  where 
they  occur.  The  breed  of  strikers  and  boycotters  is  not 
generally  native  born,  but  they  are  the  conception  of 
Old  World  tyrannies,  where  men  are  not  sovereign  citi 
zens,  but  servile  subjects. 

But  here  is  a  gloomy  companion  picture,  which  we 
glean  from  World's  Work,  that  illustrates  another  great 
evil  with  which  our  modern  civilization  has  to  contend, 
and  which  in  its  results  may  be  as  inimical  to  the 
wellbeing  of  society  as  the  unlawful  boycott  and  the 
antagonistic  methods  of  labor  unions.  The  power  of 
great  trusts,  with  millions  at  their  command,  if  not 
rightly  employed,  might  work  untold  injury  to  commu 
nities  where  they  exist.  Says  the  writer:  "It  has  been 
pointed  out  that  perhaps  one  man  or  a  small  group  of 
men,  by  the  mere  act  of  signing  art  order  to  close  up  a 
plant,  could  exercise  a  power  of  life  or  death  over  thous 
ands  of  human  beings.  Something  akin  to  this  hap 
pened  in  the  beautiful  New  England  village  of  New 
Hartford,  Conn.,  last  August  and  September,  when  the 
comparatively  large  cotton  duck  mills  of  that  place  were 
ordered  closed.  Nearly  one  thousand  persons  of  the  2300 
in  the  place  were  compelled  to  leave  the  town.  Nearly 
a  hundred  houses  were  boarded  up,  and  rents  were  of 
fered  free  to  the  mill  hands  who  remained,  for  some  men 
who  had  worked  thirty,  forty  or  even  fifty  years  in  the 
plant  were  too  old  to  get  work  elsewhere. 

"With  the  population  cut  almost  in  half,  the  mer 
chants  of  the  place  thought  they  saw  ruin  before  them. 
The  pay  rolls  of  the  mills  had  been  more  than  $175,000  a 
year,  and  when  the  spending  of  this  money  stopped,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  community  must  die.  The  income  of 
the  churches  was  cut  down,  a  large  part  of  the  foreign 
congregation  of  the  Catholic  church  disappearing  as  if 
swept  out  by  a  cyclone.  There  were  fewer  children  for 
the  schools.  The  value  of  real  estate  declined,  and  those 
who  had  put  their  savings  into  homes  found  themselves 
unable  to  get  rid  of  them.  There  were  too  many  mer 
chants,  too  many  physicians,  too  many  barbers — and, 
one  and  all,  they  sat  down  to  see  who  would  go  away  or 


go  to  the  wall  first.  Gloomy  forebodings  as  to  the  in 
crease  of  the  poor  fund  of  the  town  arose;  the  bells 
of  the  mills  ceased  to  ring;  the  town  band,  that  gave  a 
concert  every  week,  ceased  to  play;  a  water  power,  esti 
mated  as  worth  from  $200,000  to  $300,000,  lay  idle;  the 
machinery  of  the  mills  was  being  shipped  to  the  trust's 
mills  in  Alabama;  only  the  four  walls  of  three  large 
buildings  remained.  The  town  was  dead;  the  heavy  hand 
of  a  trust  seemed  to  have  crushed  it." 

How  to  deal  with  these  threatening  dangers  is  one  of 
the  great  problems  that  confront  the  American  people 
today,  and  to  solve  them  we  need  no  less  wisdom  and 
patriotism  than  that  which  guided  our  forefathers  when 
they  framed  that  glorious  Constitution  which  is  the  life- 
giving  instrument  of  our  great  American  Republic. 


FORGET  NOT  ALL  HIS  BENEFITS.* 

At  no  period  in  the  history  of  this  great  Republic  have 
we  had  greater  cause  for  thanksgiving  than  at  present. 
A  vast  country  lying  between  the  world's  two  greatest 
seas,  occupying  an  area  of  3,728,830  square  miles,  at 
peace  with  all  the  world;  free  from  pestilence  and  famine; 
our  great  industries  prosperous;  our  gathered  har 
vests  rich  in  their  abundance;  our  educational  facilities 
of  the  best;  our  churches  multiplying,  and  with  all  the 
adjuncts  of  a  great,  growing  Christian  civilization  at 
our  command,  well  might  the  nation  gather,  as  it  did 
on  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  render  thanks  to  the  Infinite 
Giver  of  all  good  for  the  manifold  blessings  with  which 
He  has  crowned  us.  Blind  indeed  should  we  be  if  we 
did  not  recognize  the  guiding  hand  and  the  controlling 
power  of  an  overruling  Providence  directing  all  things 
for  the  good  of  this  people,  who  have  become  one  of 
the  great  world-powers  of  today,  and  base  would  be  our 
ingratitude  if  we  failed  to  render  thanks  to  the  Benefi 
cent  Giver  of  all  good  who  has  guided  our  ship  of  state 
into  the  calm  waters  of  the  great  ocean  of  Peace. 

The  Old  Frag  has  been  planted  in  the  Orient,  and 
with  it  shall  go  the  blessings  of  freedom  and  Christianity. 
A  new  day  is  dawning  beneath  its  folds  in  the  lands  of 
barbarism  and  superstition.  Many  dark-skinned  races 
shall  yet  awake  to  a  new  life  of  freedom  and  spiritual 
enlightenment.  The  first  gun  fired  at  Sumter  meant 
no  more  to  "the  downtrodden  slave  than  did  the  sound 
of  Dewey's  guns  in  the  Bay  of  Manila  to  the  barbarous 
races  beneath  the  iron  heel  of  Spanish  despotism.  The 
doors  of  the  Orient  swung  open  wide  as  their  thunders 
beat  upon  them,  and  the  morning  of  a  new  day  dawned 
for  America  and  the  world. 

Never  before  has  America  had  a  Thanksgiving  Day 
so  pregnant  with  mercies  and  so  filled  with  blessings  as 
the  one  which  has  just  passed;  and  in  reviewing  all  our 
causes  for  thankfulness,  well  may  the  American  people 
exclaim,  "Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul!  and  forget  not  all 
His  benefits." 


227 


Edituria I  Writings. 


YESTERDAY    AND    TODAY.* 

How  impossible  a  half  century  ago  such  a  gathering 
[the  National  Federation  of  Women's  Clubs]  as  is  now 
being  held  in  Los  Angeles  would  have  been !  California 
was  then  an  infant  State  which  had  been  newly  cradled 
in  the  arms  of  the  Union,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  had 
hardly  more  than  been  unfurled  under  its  cloudless  skies. 
It  was  a  land  afar  off,  with  the  space  of  a  wide  conti 
nent  between  it  and  the  East,  holding  a  different  civiliza 
tion  and  linked  by  no  bands  of  steel  to  the  progressive 
civilisation  of  today.  What  vast  spaces  of  silent  and  un 
inhabited  wildernesses  lay  then  between  our  Atlantic  and 
Pacific  borders?  A  telegraphic  line  across  the  continent 
was  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of  the  ordinary  thinker. 

The  spirit  of  conquest,  it  is  true,  had  stirred,  and  the 
expanding  Empire  of  civilization  and  invention  was  mak 
ing  ready  for  the  future.  The  giant  minds  of  the  time 
conceived  ami  slowly  matured  the  stupendous  projects 
which  made  possible  this  golden  Today.  The  continent 
was  spanned  with  lines  of  steel,  and  the  Iron  Horse  let 
loose  upon  their  path;  the  wires  were  stretched  through 
space  until  the  vast  distance  became  a  wide  whispering- 
gallery,  where  we  receive  almost  as  soon  as  uttered  the 
messages  sent  us  from  the  farthest  shores  of  this  great 
continent.  We  go  and  come  as  if  the  distant  East  were 
upon  the  very  threshold  of  this  wide,  golden  West.  In 
stead  of  weeks  and  months,  it  is  only  a  few  days  of 
travel  that  lie  between  us  and  our  friends  on  the  Atlantic- 
borders.  We  are  not  divided,  but  we  are  one  great, 
united  people,,  interested  in  the  same  methods  of  progress, 
working  in  the  same  intellectual  fields,  engaged  in  the 
same  work  of  philanthropy,,  and  pursuing  the  same  meth 
ods  for  the  uplifting  of  the  race. 

It  is  this  that  makes  possible  the  national  federation 
not  only  of  women's  clubs,  but  of  other  organizations 
throughout  the  country,  and  makes  us  feel  that  we  are 
not  strangers,  but  are  linked  together  in  the  universal 
brotherhood  of  the  race,  and  our  friends  coming  to  us 
from  all  parts  of  the  land  will  find  us  fully  in  sympathy 
with  the  work  which  they  are  doing,  and  also  that  we  are 
keeping  step  with  them  in  the  noble  work  which  woman  is 
accomplishing  for  the  world.  AVe  are  not  blind  to  the 
fact  that  Providence  is  opening  wider  than  ever  before 
the  doors  of  Opportunity  for  woman.  That  old  past  is 
dead  when  she  was  a  mere  plaything  or  a  slave;  and  to 
day  the  influence  that  she  wields  in  all  the  affairs  of  life 
is  beyond  computation.  Club  life  does  not  unsex  her, 
but  it  brings  her  more  fully  in  touch  with  humanity  at 
large,  gives  her  broader  views  of  life,  and  more  vital 
interest  in  all  that  tends  to  the  betterment  of  humanity. 

Woman's  influence  in  the  world  is  growing  daily,  and 
every  year  finds  ^her  better  equipped  for  her  special 
work,  and  the  new  century  will  see  her  occupying  new 
fields,  and  seizing  tipou  new  and  golden  opportunities 
which  will  have  their  share  in  helping  the  world  for 
ward  in  the  path  of  Progress.  The  Golden  Age  for  woman 
is  fast  advancing,  and  to  Christianity,  more  than  to 
anything  else,  does  she  owe  its  dawn.  It  is  only  in 
•May  4,  1902. 


Christian  lands  that  her  equality  with  man  is  recognized, 
and  the  gates  of  usefulness  are  left  ajar  that  she  may 
enter  where  she  will.  Then  let  her  be  up  and  doing  under 
the  banner  of  Progress  and  the  Cross. 


THE    LAND    OF    OUT-OF-DOORS. 

The  Winter  rains  are  over,  and  the  gray  fogs  that  have 
visited  us  are  just  a  prelude  to  the  beautiful,  cloudless 
Summer  days  that  are  close  at  hand.  Clear,  radiant, 
perfect  days  are  Hearing,  days  when  simply  to  be  fills 
us  with  ecstatic  delight,  when  sunshine,  fragrance  and 
happy  bird-song  fill  the  world  to  overflowing,  and  colossal 
calm  and  peace  everywhere  abound. 

These  wondrous  days  were  a  marvel  to  us  when  we  first 
came  to  the  State  from  the  stormy  realms  of  the  East. 
Day  after  day  of  cloudless  sunshine  had  been  ours  as 
the  Summer  neared,  till  at  last  the  thought  came  to  us 
that  we  would  count  the  successive  days  that  should  come 
that  were  wholly  without  a  cloud.  And  this  we  did  until 
forty  days  had  come  and  gone  without  a  cloud  even  as 
large  as  a  man's  hand  to  dim  the  brightness  of  the 
wonderful  blue.  There  were  only  the  golden  clouds  of 
sunset  when  the  sun  sank  to  rest  in  a  pavilion  of  glory 
and  the  grand  mountains  bathed  in  the  warm  glow  of 
the  evening  lights  were  transformed  into  glowing  piles  of 
rubies  and  of  amethysts. 

It  was  a  marvelous  revelation  to  us  of  the  perfection 
of  California's  climate,  for  they  were  not  only  cloudless 
days,  but  days  in  which 

"The  winds  were  hushed  nor  dared  to  breathe  aloud, 

The  sky  seemed  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud." 

And  how  things  grow  in  such  a  season  !  You  can  almost 
see  Nature's  advancement  from  day  to  day.  The  green 
blades  of  grass  steadily  grow  higher,  the  flowers  unfold 
swiftly,  and  today  is  not  as  yesterday,  for  it  is  clothed 
in  richer  beauty  and  more  splendid  growth. 

Oh,  this  Summer  Land  is  the  land  in  which  to  live  and 
be  glad,  for  it  is  the  land  of  out-of-doors,  where  all  the 
long  season  you  can,  if  you  will,  live  under  the  tent 
of  sky,  and  dream  beneath  the  stars!  It  is  the  land 
for  the  camper,  for  through  the  long  Summer  months 
he  has  no  fear  of  rain  or  sudden  storms.  Starlit  skies 
forever  bend  above  him  at  night,  soft  and  fragrant 
breezes  blow,  and  regenerate  Nature  breathes  only  to 
bless  him.  And  sleep,  such  sleep  as  comes  to  him  in  his 
tent  or  under  the  trees,  is  full  of  refreshment  and 
life-giving  strength.  And  here  he  can  live  heart  to  heart 
with  Nature  and  study  her  mysteries  and  become  familiar 
with  her  charms,  learning  to  look  from  Nature  up  to 
Nature's  God. 


COMING    INTO    HER    OWN. 

Woman  suffrage  is  not  essential  to  woman's  highest 
advancement.  Although  she  has  by  many  long  been 
considered  the  weaker  vessel,  she  is,  in  this  modern 
age  of  progress  and  broader  enlightenment,  coming  to 


228 


October:  A  Khajwtdy. 


participate  more  fully  in  the  world's  work  in  the  field 
of  public  action,  and  her  influence  is  being  felt  in  the 
industrial  world,  as  well  as  in  other  directions,  as  it  never 
heretofore  has  been  felt. 

Of  course,  all  will  admit  that  woman's  first  and  highest 
sphere  is  in  the  home.  What  our  modern  civilization 
needs  more  than  anything  else  ...  is  consecrated 
homes.  They  can  do  as  much  for  the  advancement  of 
civilization  as  the  pulpit  can  do.  It  is  the  consecrated 
homes  of  the  nation  that  are  the  hope  of  the  land  and 
its  bulwark  of  strength.  Take  these  away  and  civiliza 
tion  would  go  backward,  and  the  enlightenment  of  this 
century  would  cease.  Multiply  these  and  yon  multiply 
all  that  gives  hope  to  life,  beauty  and  sacredness  to  ad 
vancement,  and  strength  and  power  to  the  nation.  You 
give  to  your  children  a  heritage  of  sacred  memories,  a 
reverence  for  all  that  is  good  and  true,  and  you  help 
them  to  lay  hold  upon  hopes  that  are  undying. 

In  the  Christian  home  we  find  the  larger  percentage  of 
good  citizenship,  and  here  it  is  that  woman  can  exert  a 
grander  and  more  abiding  influence  than  in  the  realm  of 
state.  But  all  women  are  not  mothers,  and  not  all  have 
homes  in  which  to  employ  their  energies  and  efforts.  What 
shall  we  do  with  them,  do  you  ask?  For  them,  at  the 
present  day,  the  door  of  Opportunity  swings  wide,  and 
without  any  fear  of  unsexing  themselves  we  find  women 
coming  into  honorable  competition  with  men  in  miml»erless 
fields  that  were  once  closed  against  them.  How  well 
and  faithfully  have  they  done  their  part  is  described  in 
a  sermon  on  "Women,"  recently  preached  by  the  Rev. 
N.  D.  Hillis  of  the  Plymouth  Church,  Brooklyn.  In  the 
following  words  of  warning  to  men,  he  says: 

If  you  don't  want  women  to  outstrip  you  in  the 
industrial  race  and  compel  you  to  come  to  them  when 
you  want  50  cents,  you  would  better  stop  drinking 
poor  whisky  and  quit  gambling  at  race-tracks  and 
in  poolrooms.  Women,  in  spite  of  man's  refusal  to 
give  them  the  rights  and  privileges  to  which  they  are 
entitled,  are  today  in  145  branches  of  business,  and 
in  instances  showing  more  ability  than  the  men.  In 
one  of  the  greatest  financial  institutions  of  this  city 
not  long  ago  a  well-known  man,  drawing  a  salary 
of  $25,000  a  year,  suffered  a  nervous  collapse.  The 
directors  selected  the  young  woman  who  for  ten 
years  had  been  their  stenographer.  She,  the  directors 
told  me,  has  done  letter  work  than  the  man  she 
succeeded,  and  ks  doing  it  for  $10,000  a  year.  In 
fifty  years  the  women  will  know  more  than  the  men. 
They  have  more  time  to  read  and  study,  and  they 
are  improving  their  time.  Eventually  they  will 
vote,  and  tell  the  men  for  whom  they  shall  vote. 
Eventually  all  the  universities  will  be  coeducational, 
and  the  women  will  carry  off  all  the  prizes. 

We  are  hardly  as  optimistic  in  this  regard  as  the 
brilliant  and  well-known  preacher  whom  we  have  quoted; 
but,  as  says  a  recent  writer  in  speaking  of  these 
statements,  "as  a  matter  of  fact  there  is  a  great  deal 
of  truth  in  what  he  says,  and  young  men  can  take  his 
word  to  heart  without  fear  of  being  the  losers.  In  the 
history  of  the  world  never  has  there  been  a  time  when 
the  young  men  meet  with  so  many  temptations  that  unfit 
them  for  the  exacting  duties  of  life,  and  never  before 
were  those  duties  so  exacting." 


These  temptations  do  not  appeal  to  the  young  woman 
as  they  do  to  the  young  man,  and  the  well-educated, 
moral  and  aspiring  young  woman  enters  the  field 
unshackled  by  vices  and  ready  to  do  her  best  in  the 
work  assigned  her.  Her  ambition  is  kindled,  her  spirit 
of  self-reliance  is  awakened,  and  she  has  become  a 
competitor  not  to  be  disregarded  or  lightly  overlooked 
by  those  of  the  other  sex  who  are  busy  in  the  industrial 
world.  The  world  is  changing,  broadening  in  its  scope 
of  action,  and  everywhere  woman  is  coining  into  her  own, 
not  by  means  of  the  ballot,  but  through  the  door  of  golden 
opportunities  which  are  no  longer  being  withheld  from 
her  grasp. 


A  PICTURE. 

At  the  present  time  the  charms  of  a  Southern  Cali 
fornia  landscape  may  be  fully  appreciated  by  the  true 
lover  of  Nature.  What  a  picture  is  presented  here  in  the 
vicinity  of  Los  Angeles!  Drive  out  beyond  the  city's 
busy  streets  into  the  country's  broad  highways,  and  what 
do  we  see?  Vast  grass-covered  fields  gleaming  in  em 
erald  richness,  jeweled  with  ten  thousand  wild-flowers 
of  various  hues;  pepper  trees  with  their  rich  foliage  in 
terspersed  with  countless  clusters  of  bright  red  berries; 
great  orange  orchards  with  golden  fruitage  hanging  amid 
boughs  which  are  just  bursting  into  fragrant  bloom; 
blossoming  pea  fields  and  acres  of  golden  poppies  which 
lie  like  sunset  clouds  upon  the  sloping  hillsides;  purple 
fields  of  alfileria  brightening  in  the  sunshine;  acacias 
with  their  crowns  of  yellow  blossoms;  great  fields  of 
springing  grain;  butterflies  winging  their  way  through 
the  sun-filled  air;  bird  wings  spread  everywhere  be 
neath  the  blue;  palms  waving  in  the  sunlight;  roses 
climbing  to  the  roofs  of  many  a  cottage  home;  gera 
niums  making  scarlet  hedges  along  the  way;  long  lines 
of  calla  lilies  swaying  in  the  soft  breeze,  and  everywhere 
the  melody  of  birds,  and,  rising  far  beyond  the  sun-filled 
vales,  the  lofty  mountain  peaks  white  with  Winter  snows, 
and  gleaming  beneath  the  cloudless  blue  of  sun-flooded 
skies.  Far  off  is  the  sweep  of  the  sea  which  cradles 
isles  of  eternal  Summer;  the  low  voice  of  the  shining 
tides  is  heard  upon  the  white  sands  of  the  beach;  but  in 
land  is  hush  and  calm,  the  green  pastures  and  blossom 
ing  glory  of  numberless  flowers.  It  is  the  land  of  eter 
nal  Summer,  the  sun-kissed  land  of  the  great  South 
west,  toward  which  is  the  mighty  march  of  Empire.  We 
hear  the  rush  of  its  oncoming,  and  see  afar  the  brightness 
of  its  new  dawn,  and  wait  with  hope  for  the  unclouded 
brightness  of  that  new  day  of  Freedom  that  shall  yet 
break  beside  this  western  sea. 


OCTOBER— A  RHAPSODY.* 

October  comes  golden-shod  to  our  shores;  the  air  is 
full  of  warm,  mellow  sunshine  and  delicious  calni. 
There  is  no  whisper  anywhere  of  approaching  Winter. 
The  touch  of  frost  is  not  laid  upon  the  trees.  The  flow 
ers  still  bloom  and  fill  the  air  with  fragrance.  Butterfly 
•October.  1902. 


229 


Editorial  Writings. 


and  bee  are  winging  their  paths  through  the  sunny  air. 
Bird-song  is  not  hushed.  The  trees  yet  stand  leaf-clad, 
many  of  them  hung  with  luscious  fruits.  We  say  it  is 
October,  but  it  might  well  be  June,  for  the  spirit  of 
June  is  in  all  things,  and  Nature  is  full  of  beauty. 

And  here  all  the  day  may  be  spent  out  of  doors,  hand- 
iu-hand  with  comfort  and  delight.  The  little  ones  may 
tumble  on  the  grass  in  our  parks,  or  on  the  green  lawns 
in  front  of  their  homes,  watching  the  butterflies  on  the 
wing;  listening  to  the  song  of  the  cricket  in  the  grass, 
or  the  merry  notes  of  the  frog  in  the  pool.  The  fra 
grance  of  flowers  is  wafted  to  them  on  every  breeze,  the 
sunlight  plays  hide-and-seek  amid  the  million  emerald 
leaves  over  their  heads ;  the  green  vines  clamber  over 
roof  and  wall;  the  skies  are  without  a  cloud,  and  October 
sits  in  the  lap  of  Summer  and  smiles  as  if  the  year  were 
young,  and  flowering  June  were  here  to  crown  the  year 
with  golden  light  and  beauty.  There  is  no  rush  of  angry 
tempest  or  fierce  gale,  no  touch  of  frost,  no  whisper  of 
waiting  cold.  The  eyelids  of  Day  are  fringed  with 
golden  sunbeams,  and  Night  silvers  the  air  with  her 
starry  rays.  Beauty,  calm,  sweetness  and  growth  are 
everywhere.  Oh,  who  would  not  live  in  a  land  like  this ! 


THE   AMERICAN    SOLDIER. 

America  is  a  peaceful  nation,  a  nation  without  a 
great  standing  army,  yet  withal,  in  the  truest  sense,  she 
is,  as  the  late  war  with  Spain  has  revealed  to  us  and 
the  world,  a  fighting  nation,  out  of  whose  citizens  can 
be  made  at  the  briefest  notice  great  armies  of  brave, 
valorous  and  unconquerable  soldiers,  men  whose  daring 
and  courage  cannot  be  surpassed  by  any  regularly  trained 
soldiery  in  the  world. 

And  what  is  equally  true,  these  volunteer  armies  of 
ours  do  not  lack  for  competent  leaders,  for  skilled 
strategists  who  would  snatch  victory  even  out  of  the 
jaws  of  defeat  in  the  face  of  superior  numbers.  A  free 
and  independent  people,  we  are  also  an  intelligent  people, 
knowing  our  rights,  and  knowing,  we  dare  to  maintain 
them. 

The  history  of  the  American  nation  is  almost  as  in 
teresting  as  the  history  of  Israel  of  old,  in  that  we  can 
trace  from  its  beginning  the  care  and  the  guiding  hand 
of  Providence,  which  runs  through  it  all  in  golden  lines 
of  unfailing  blessings.  Our  army  was  but  a  handful  of 
poor,  imperfectly  equipped  and  hungry  soldiers  when 
we  fought  the  Mother  Country,  and,  judging  by  the  cir 
cumstances  against  us,  there  was  little  hope  that  we 
should  be  victorious.  But  behind  all  of  our  needs  and 
poverty  of  meaus  there  was  the  Puritan's  unfailing 
trust  in  the  God  of  Battles,  and  his  imperishable  love 
of  freedom  which  made  his  universal  battle  cry:  "Give 
me  liberty  or  give  me  death ! "  Men  like  these  are  in 
vincible,  and  they  will  fight  as  boldly  as  Israel  did  when 
led  by  the  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  the  pillar  of  fire 
by  night,  feeling  that  God  was  on  their  side  and  that 
He  would  disconcert  their  enemies. 


We  are,  technically  speaking,  a  Christian  people,  recog 
nizing  hardly  less  than  did  God's  chosen  people  the 
leading  and  guiding  hand  of  an  overruling  Providence, 
who  has  the  destiny  of  men  in  His  hand,  and  who  out  of 
all  the  great  events  transpiring  in  our  relations  with 
other  peoples  has  some  great  purpose  to  be  fulfilled, 
some  end  to  be  achieved  for  the  good  of  the  race  through 
our  instrumentality. 

Our  fuller  contact  with  the  nations  of  the  Old  World 
is  not  without  purpose.  The  enlightening  of  our  eyes  in 
regard  to  our  own  strength  and  power  will  make  us 
stronger  and  more  ready  to  answer  to  the  call  of  duty. 
We  feel  that  the  arm  of  the  American  volunteer  is  as 
strong  and  as  sure  as  that  of  the  trained  soldier  of  the 
Old  World.  He  is  no  fighting  machine,  no  puppet  to 
be  moved  at  the  will  of  despotic  rule,  but  he  is  a  man 
of  large  intelligence,  of  high  moral  purpose,  and  an  un 
quenchable  love  of  country.  He  is  fired  with  Spartan 
courage  and  he  is  liable  to  read  between  the  lines  the 
fullest  meaning  of  the  history  that  he  is  making.  He 
does  not  believe  in  war,  except  in  the  last  extremity, 
but  when  that  extremity  exists  and  war  is  forced  upon 
him,  he  is  fired  with  the  spirit  of  daring  and  is  ready 
to  fight  to  the  bitter  end  for  the  cause  which  he  espouses. 

It  will  be  worth  something  to  us  that  the  world  is 
learning  more  of  the  characteristics  of  the  American 
soldier.  It  has  discovered  that  he  is  a  good  marksman, 
that  he  is  energetic,  and  never  satisfied  with  his  work 
unless  he  accomplishes  something.  As  has  been  re 
marked:  "He  goes  to  war  not  as  a  trade,  but  to  kill 
people."  He  does  this  that  he  may  win  the  triumph  of 
the  principle  for  which  he  fights.  War  means  death — 
battlefields  covered  with  the  slain — and  to  the  victor  a 
great  harvest  of  dead  foes  means  ultimate  peace  and  the 
triumph  of  the  principles  for  which  he  has  fought. 

And  it  is  surprising  how  quickly  the  American  volun 
teer  soldier  becomes  once  more,  after  the  war  is  over, 
the  American  citizen,  loving  the  avocations  of  peace, 
ready  to  take  upon  himself  the  duties  of  the  State  and 
to  labor  for  the  advancement  of  the  common  weal.  He 
lays  down  the  sword  to  take  up  the  pen  or  to  follow 
the  plow,  or  any  of  those  pursuits  which  make  great  and 
prosperous  the  commonwealth.  The  love  of  country  has 
been  deepened  by  the  conflict  in  which  he  has  engaged, 
and  his  country's  Flag  is  fuller  of  rich  meaning.  The 
songs  of  peace  are  no  less  sweet  to  his  ear  than  the 
thunders  of  the  cannon,  and  he  comes  home  ready  to  lay 
aside  his  uniform,  conscious,  whether  he  has  been  at  the 
front  or  only  a  patient  waiter  in  the  camp,  that  he  has 
done  his  duty  as  fully  as  those  who  fell. 


THE   AMERICAN    PEOPLE. 

We  are  a  nation  of  more  than  70,000,000  of  people — 
how  many  more  the  approaching  census  will  inform  us. 
This  number  of  people  live  under  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
upon  this  continent,  and  it  does  not  include  the  popula 
tion  of  our  recently  annexed  territory.  We  are  a  people 
who  love  liberty  and  whose  banner  is  but  the  outspoken 


230 


The  Brotherhood  of  the  Race. 


synonym  for  freedom.  The  great  palpitating  heart  of 
the  nation  is  for  universal  sovereignty;  for  the  man 
above  the  king;  the  people — the  great  masses — above  the 
throne. 

There  can  be  no  question  but  what  the  fundamental 
principles  of  our  government  are  based  upon  righteous 
ness,  and  if  carried  out  to  the  letter  we  shall  find  the 
science  of  human  society  more  grandly  developed  by 
American  freemen  than  it  has  hitherto  been  in  the  whole 
history  of  the  race. 

It  has  been  claimed  that  "the  history  of  western  civil 
ization  is  simply  the  natural  history  of  the  Christian  re 
ligion,  and  it  is  to  the  softening  influence  of  the  spirit 
of  that  unexampled  conception  of  self-abnegation  that 
we  owe  the  evolutionary  force  that  has  been  behind  the 
entire  process  of  social  development  which  has  trans 
formed  a  primitive  organization  of  society  into  the  mod 
ern  State,  which  is  still  pursuing  its  course  unchecked 
among  us."  But  the  masses,  or  the  unthinking  element, 
do  not  take  into  consideration  what  we,  as  a  people, 
owe  to  Christianity.  Has  heathenism  ever  proclaimed  in 
all  the  long  centuries  of  the  past  that  "all  men 
are  created  equal  and  entitled  to  the  right  of  life, 
liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness?"  In  the  whole 
world's  history  have  not  barbarism  and  cruelty  and 
oppression  been  found  to  exist  wherever  the  Christian 
religion  did  not  prevail?  Rome  in  the  very  height  of 
her  power  and  splendor  was  cruel.  Universal  manhood 
was  not  recognized;  the  right  of  man  to  be  a  man  was 
not  acknowledged.  In  the  historic  and  storied  past  we 
find  that  it  was  the  Jews,  with  their  belief  in  one  uni 
versal  and  divine  Father,  who  first,  as  a  people,  cheer 
fully  promulgated  the  belief  in  the  grandeur  of  human 
ity.  It  was  not  the  teaching  of  any  of  the  ancient 
peoples,  save  the  Jews,  who  accepted  God  as  the  Father 
and  Maker  of  men.  It  is  Christianity  that  teaches  us 
the  value  of  man  as  a  creature  endowed  with  immortal 
powers  and  made  in  the  image  of  the  Divine  Creator. 

Freedom,  then,  is  an  inspiration  of  Christianity,  and 
just  so  long  as  we  adhere  to  Christian  teachings  and 
base  the  control  of  our  public  affairs  upon  them  shall 
we  be  a  free  and  prosperous  people,  growing  in  great 
ness  and  power,  realizing  the  value  of  humanity  and  the 
grandeur  of  its  possibilities.  Christianity  is  like  a  pow 
erful  searchlight  thrown  upon  human  needs,  and  it 
quickens  the  sympathies  of  men  in  such  a  way  that  they 
are  anxious  to  supply  those  needs. 

A  nation  grows  great  only  as  it  realizes  the  grandeur 
of  man  and  stands  ready  for  the  work  of  his  uplifting. 
It  is  true  that  among  the  American  people  there  are 
many  who  have  not  become  reconciled  to  the  American 
idea  of  Christianity  and  freedom— aliens  who  mistake 
liberty  for  license  and  Christianity  for  dogma  and  creed. 
But  that  leaven  of  faith  which  permeated  the  atmos 
phere  which  our  Puritan  fathers  breathed  is  working  to 
day  in  the  very  spirit  of  our  free  institutions,  and  is 
controlling  us  in  our  policy  and  laws,  no  less  than  in  our 
relation  toward  other  nations.  Underlying  popular  senti 
ment  throughout  the  country  is  the  love  of  justice,  hu 
manity  and  the  right.  And,  living  under  the  stress  of 


such  sentiment,  the  American  people  can  never  become 
oppressors.  We  have  not  removed  the  Spaniard  from 
Cuban  and  Filipino  that  we  might  forge  for  them  the 
chains  of  a  political  slavery.  .  .  . 

The  installation  of  our  national  power  in  those  far 
islands  was  not  ot  this  government's  seeking.  It  was  a 
something  thrust  upon  us  by  the  providence  of  God,  and 
lie  is  calling  today  upon  the  American  people  to  aid 
in  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  uplifting  ignorant  and 
semi-barbarous  peoples.  We  are  solving  that  problem 
in  a  way  that  we  did  not  desire,  by  the  help  of 
the  sword,  but  every  bullet  He  may  make  speak  for 
Him  in  the  behalf  of  freedom  and  for  a  nobler  future 
for  that  race.  Each  tomorrow  of  Time  has  its  night 
in  which  the  sun  is  hid,  but  when  the  tomorrow  of 
America's  relation  with  these  islands  shall  dawn,  we 
shall  see  for  them  the  promise  of  a  better  day. 

The  providence  of  God  is  not  working  idly.  It  was 
through  war  that  we  have  again  been  cemented  into  one 
great  and  undivided  nation.  The  baptism  of  blood  is 
upon  our  Flag,  but  we  have  been  led  to  see  the  hand  of 
Providence  in  all  these  varied  affairs  of  government, 
and  to  feel  that  we  were  being  guided  by  that  same  hand 
into  new  paths  that  we  have  not  sought,  and  that  out  of 
them,  sooner  or  later,  would  come  the  revelations  of 
God's  purpose,  while  we  would  say,  "  Here,  O  Lord !  are 
we,  Thy  people;  use  us  as  Thou  wilt!" 


THE   BROTHERHOOD    OF   THE   RACE. 

"Xo  man  liveth  to  himself,"  is  a  saying  that  is  cen 
turies  old- — old  as  the  Christian  era,  when  the  great 
Teacher  enunciated  so  emphatically  the  truth  of  the 
brotherhood  of  the  race,  and  taught  men  that  funda 
mental  principle  of  Christianity,  "Do  unto  others  as  you 
would  have  them  do  unto  you." 

It  is  this  innate  feeling  of  universal  brotherhood  that 
is  stirring  the  world  today  and  moving  it  to  indignant 
protest  against  the  attitude  of  France,  which  in  the  con 
demnation  of  Dreyfus  has  dared  to  defy  the  sentiment 
of  Christendom  and  withhold  from  him  the  meed  of  jus 
tice.  France  has  dared  in  this  to  voice  her  hatred  of 
the  Jew  and  to  heap  upon  him  unmerited  ignominy  and 
shame.  The  nations  stand  aghast  at  her  daring,  at  the 
travesty  of  justice  which  she  exhibited  in  her  recent  trial 
of  the  accused,  and  the  general  feeling  is  that  she 
stands  upon  a  political  volcano  which  at  any  moment 
may  break  forth  into  eruptive  force  and  destroy  her. 

Xo  nation,  any  more  than  the  individual,  can  trample 
upon  justice,  upon  human  rights,  and  bid  bold  defiance 
to  that  sentiment  which  recognizes  the  brotherhood  of 
man,  without  punishment  coming  in  due  time.  "The 
mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind  exceed 
ing  small,"  is  a  truth  that  was  recognized  by  the  an 
cients,  with  their  multitudinous  gods  whom  they  wor 
shiped.  But  that  old  mythological  age  has  passed,  and 
those  gods  born  of  men's  unbelief  have  vanished.  Jehovah 
stands  at  the  helm  as  He  did  even  in  those  days  of  misty 
doubt  and  unbelief,  and  He  is  making  ready  to  assert 


231 


Editorial  Writings. 


His  justice  and  to  stay  with  the  right  hand  of  His 
power  these  long  ages  of  oppression  and  wrong.  After 
nineteen  hundred  years  of  the  Christian  era  the  world  is 
not  going  to  stand  tamely  by  and  silently  witness  such 
mockery  of  justice,  and  this  persecution  of  the  Jew  as 
a  Jew,  when  no  stain  of  crime  is  found  upon  him.  The 
Christian  world  does  not  forget  how  much  it  owes  to  the 
Jew  of  all  that  is  best  and  highest  in  human  hopes.  It 
does  not  forget  that  the  Great  Teacher  was  a  Jew,  and 
that  from  the  Jew  it  received  its  Bible,  in  which  are 
hidden  all  the  hopes  of  its  future,  all  the  promises  of 
immortality.  There  is  nothing  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  the  age  in  the  result  of  this  trial  of  Dreyfus,  and 
France  cannot  trample  upon  the  enlightened  sentiment 
of  the  world  and  hope  to  escape  her  punishment.  Re 
publican  France  will  soon  be  a  thing  of  the  past  if  out 
rage  is  to  be  permitted  to  sit  in  her  halls  of  justice  and 
pronounce  the  verdicts  for  her  judges.  The  whole  en 
lightened  world  protests  against  it,  and  it  recognizes  the 
claim  which  this  persecuted  and  wronged  son  of  Abraham 
has  to  its  sympathy  and  its  aid. 

This  trial  will  help  the  Jew  where  he  is  guiltless  of 
wrong,  and  the  Christian  sentiment  of  the  world  will  be 
with  him,  and  will  extend  to  him  the  hand  of  brother 
hood.  Day  by  day  do  we  more  fully  realize  that  "God 
hath  made  of  one  blood  all  the  nations  of  the  earth," 
and  just  so  far  as  we  supinely  permit  the  rights  of  any 
man  or  any  people  to  be  trampled  upon,  just  so  far  do 
we  endanger  the  principles  of  freedom  and  the  claims 
or  universal  brotherhood.  And  God  will  not  deal  witli 
nations — with  wrong  in  the  aggregate — less  severely  than 
with  individual  wrong.  The  scales  of  justice  will  weigh 
surely,  and  in  the  end  the  wrong  shall  be  punished  and 
the  brotherhood  of  the  race  shall  be  established. 


LIBERTY    UNDER    LAW. 

The  power  and  strength  of  the  Republic  is  evidenced 
in  times  like  the  present,  when  the  Chief  Magistrate  of 
the  nation  lies  stricken  by  the  hand  of  the  assassin,  and 
the  heart  of  this  great  people  is  stirred  with  an  intensity 
of  anxiety  and  sorrow.  But  there  is  no  pause  in  govern 
mental  affairs,  no  disorder  throughout  the  wide  realm 
of  our  country's  domain;  no  panic  in  business  circles 
and  no  attempt  to  lawlessly  avenge  this  awful  crime 
against  humanity  and  all  civilized  government. 

The  blow  of  the  assassin  was  not  a  blow  struck  at  one 
man,  but  it  was  aimed  at  the  State,  at  the  majesty  of 
law  and  the  protective  hand  of  authorized  authority.  It 
was  a  revelation  of  human  depravity  such  as  may  well 
appall  us,  and  which  would  make  us  tremble  did  we  not 
realize  that  God  still  rules,  and  out  of  all  this  evil  He 
can  bring  good,  An  overruling  Providence!  That  is 
what  the  American  people  have  to  thank  God  for  today, 
and  they  may  rest  assured  that  out  of  this  darkness  He 
will  yet  make  the  light  to  shine  and  the  greatness  of  His 
purposes  concerning  us  to  be  revealed. 

The  great  blessings  of  freedom  and  constitutional  lib 
erty  have  we  not  been  inclined  to  accept  as  a  matter  of 
course  and  to  guard  lightly  the  inestimable  privileges 


which  they  have  bequeathed  us?  Have  we  realized  the 
sacredness  of  liberty  and  the  wide  difference  there  is  be 
tween  liberty  and  license?  The  one  is  heaven-born  and 
holy;  the  other  is  altogether  a  thing  of  evil,  working  only 
destruction  and  the  annihilation  of  every  established 
safeguard  of  society.  There  is  no  freedom  that  equals 
that  which  is  enjoyed  under  obedience  to  righteous  law, 
and  he  who  would  wipe  out  all  law  is  an  enemy  to  man 
kind  and  a  willing  tool  of  the  Prince  of  Evil. 

As  a  people  we  cannot  doubt  that  we  are  true  to  the 
principles  of  sovereign,  individual  liberty,  and  yet  much 
that  is  subversive  of  those  principles  has  of  late  crept 
into  our  various  communities,  and  the  God-given  right 
of  men  to  live  and  labor  and  provide  for  the  needs  of 
those  dependent  upon  them  has  been  denied  them  ex 
cept  under  certain  conditions.  The  right  of  man  to  be 
a  man,  to  think  and  act  and  decide  for  himself  under 
law,  has  been  assailed,  and  thus  the  very  seeds  of  anarchy 
and  misrule  have  been  sown  broadcast,  and  the  causes 
which  naturally  lead  to  such  dastardly  and  damnable 
crimes  as  that  so  recently  perpetrated  at  Buffalo  have 
been  set  in  motion  and  brought  into  activity. 

Perhaps  the  American  people  needed  just  such  an 
awfid  lesson  as  is  presented  by  the  assassination  of  our 
great  and  good  President  to  lead  them  to  pause  and  re 
flect  whither  they  are  tending.  We  do  not  believe  the 
work  of  this  nation  is  yet  done,  but  rather  that  it  has 
only  paved  the  way  to  a  grander  and  more  golden  fu 
ture,  and  Providence  has  perhaps  taken  this  means  of 
opening  our  eyes  to  see  where  we  stand,  that  the  dan 
ger  which  threatens  us  may  be  averted. 

Christian  America  is  the  hope  of  the  world,  and  the 
eyes  of  all  nations  are  upon  her.  Let  her  not  go  back 
ward  or  take  one  step  downward  in  her  grand  march  of 
progress  and  enlightenment.  Let  justice  and  righteous 
ness  be  embodied  in  all  the  principles  of  her  government 
and  the  sovereign  rights  of  the  individual  citizen  be 
maintained.  A  great  world  power,  our  duties  cannot 
be  ignored  or  lightly  cast  aside.  We  have  been  schooled 
in  a  century  of  freedom  such  as  no  other  people  have 
enjoyed.  A  broad,  vast  continent  is  ours,  and  here  all 
that  is  best  and  most  beneficent  in  human  government 
should  be  promulgated  and  the  grandeur  of  liberty  un 
der  law  be  most  fully  illustrated. 


THE   "LAND    OF   THE    AFTERNOON." 

Nature  is  a  lover  of  romance  and  of  poetry,  and 
there  are  some  pages  in  her  great  volume  that  are  all 
aglow  with  beauty;  pages  on  which  she  has  written  her 
grandest  epics  with  the  alphabet  of  majestic  mountains, 
towering  foothills,  wide-spreading  plains,  deep,  rock- 
walled  canons,  and  the  great  seas  clasping  the  shining 
sands  of  her  white  shores,  which  lie  all  the  year  in  the 
lap  of  the  eternal  sunshine. 

We  have  read  much  in  that  great  volume  which  she 
has  written,  turning  its  pages  again  and  again  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  studying  her  vast  forests,  her 
towering  waterfalls,  her  rolling  plains,  her  swift-rushing 


232 


The  "Land  of  tlic  Afternoon:' 


rivers  and  her  inland  seas,  but  nowhere  have  we  found 
tne  grand  epic  of  Nature  so  eloquent  and  so  full  of 
splendor  and  sublimity  as  on  that  marvelous  page  where 
the  wondrous  glory  of  California  is  written  in  an  alpha 
bet  all  her  own. 

This  Land  of  the  Afternoon,  as  we  contemplate  its 
varied  charms,  seems  to  us,  in  contrast  with  other  sec 
tions  of  the  continent,  like  a  miracle  of  Xature.  In  all 
its  vast  extent  it  has  nothing  commonplace;  nothing  but 
what  is  built  upon  the  largest  and  most  perfect  plan. 
It  is  an  empire  in  extent,  embracing  a  larger  area  than 
many  an  Old-\Vorld  kingdom.  It  has  great  blossoming 
and  fertile  valleys,  some  of  which  are  greater  in  area 
than  the  whole  State  of  Massachusetts.  Figures  may  tell 
the  story  of  its  vastness,  yet  how  little  do  we  compre 
hend  them.  It  is  a  State  770  miles  in  length,  and  at  its 
greatest  width  330  miles  in  extent,  containing  within 
its  borders  188,981  square  miles.  The  old  Empire  State 
of  the  older  East  is  like  a  pigmy  beside  it,  for  this 
wonderful  California  is  four  times  the  size  of  New  York 
and  twenty-four  times  larger  than  Massachusetts,  the- 
cradle  of  so  much  that  is  grand  in  our  history,  and 
within  its  limits  H4  States  of  the  size  of  Rhode  Island 
might  be  planted  and  yet  find  room. 

Cradled  in  the  sunshine,  guarded  by  sentinel  moun 
tains,  traversed  by  broad  valleys,  fanned  by  the  delight 
ful  breezes  of  the  world's  greatest  sea,  with  a  soil  of 
unsurpassed  fertility,  and  the  home  of  the  products  of 
every  zone,  California  invites  the  world  to  her  enfolding 
arms  and  bids  the  home-seeker  come  hither  and  help 
to  build  a  glorious  future,  such  as  shall  find  no  parallel 
in  all  the  proud,  historic  past. 

If  we  but  study  the  latent  possibilities  of  this  Land  of 
the  Afternoon,  we  will  find  that  they  are  scarcely  with 
out  limit,  and  that  everything  exists  here  which  tends 
toward  the  highest  physical  and  intellectual  develop 
ment  of  the  race.  Here  are  all  the  elements  necessary 
for  the  nurture  of  art;  for  the  inspiration  of  the  poet; 
for  the  unfolding  of  the  scholar,  of  the  philanthropist 
and  the  patriot.  Men  who  are  forever  companioned  by 
lofty  mountains,  those  mighty  apostles  of  greatness  and 
sublimity,  are  not  apt  to  grow  small  and  mean.  Where 
the  whole  of  one's  natural  surroundings  are  built  on  the 
grandest  scale,  men  are  not  inclined  to  narrowness  of 
thought.  Unconsciously  Xature  is  their  teacher,  and 
they  drink  in  something  of  the  large  spirit  that  is  abroad 
in  her  realm,  especially  where  so  great  a  proportion  of 
life  may  be  lived  out  of  doors  with  the  voices  of  Growth 
and  Sunshine  forever  speaking  to  us,  and  with  the  forms 
of  beauty  and  color  enshrined  in  everything  we  see.  In  no 
country  in  the  world  has  Xature  so  excelled  in  her  handi 


work  as  in  this  State,  and  we  can  but  feel  that  it  is  a 
State  which  she  has  built  for  the  future;  that  it  is  a 
workshop  where  she  may  give  birth  and  development  to 
her  human  masterpieces,  who  shall  bless  the  world. 

Here  we  front  the  wide  realm  of  the  Orient,  rich  in 
historic  memories.     It  was  the  cradle  of  civilization,  the 
nursing   mother   of  art   and   poetry   and   song.     But   the 
light  of  its  early  morning  has  grown  dim;  its  intellectual 
giants  have  passed,  and  the  world's  sunlight  shines  bright 
est  today  in  the  West.     And  in  all  this  wide  AVest  there 
.-.  no  section  so   full  of  promise,  where  Xature  offers  so 
many   aids   to   advancement,    as   in   this   golden   Land   of 
tl.e    Afternoon,   where    everything    invites    to    action,  to 
growth  and  prosperity.      If  you   but  tickle  the  soil  and 
water  it,  abundant  harvests   grow  and  ripen  in  the    un 
failing   sunlight.      Breathing  the  pure  air  and   living  in 
the  great  world  out  of  doors,  health  is  our  natural  herit 
age.      Relieved    from    severe    battling    with    extremes    of 
heat  and  cold,  we  have  perfect  physical  comfort,  and  our 
thoughts    are    not    distracted    by    this    warfare    with    the 
elements   to   the   neglect   of   greater  things   that   tend   to 
progressive    development.      It    is    as    if    Xature    said    to 
us:     "I  have  set  but  few  hindrances  to  growth  here,  and 
I  have  made  it  possible  in  this  land  for  the  race  to  reach 
the  highest  stage  of  human  advancement.     Here  I  look 
for  the  intellectual  giants  of  the  future  and  the  culmi 
nation  of  all  that  is  best  in  Christian  civilization.     Here 
the  horn  of  plenty  shall  be  full.     Rivers  of  oil  and  har 
vests   of    fruit   and   grain   shall  be  abundant.     The   land 
shall  laugh  with  its   rich  harvests  and  grow  glad   in   its 
unfailing  calm   and   sunshine,  and   all   that    I   ask   in   re 
turn  is  that  you  shall  be  true  to  manhood  ana  to  freedom. 
O  Land  of  the  Afternoon  let  your  future  be  glorious!" 


GEMS. 

Have  you  seen  the  glorious  poppy  fields  lying  like  sun 
set  clouds  upon  the  hills?  They  pave  a  pathway  of  gold 
for  your  feet,  till  you  think  of  the  shining  streets  of 
the  Celestial  City,  and  you  almost  wonder  if  they  can 
be  fairer  than  these  flower-decked  paths  that  lie  so  gold- 
enly  along  our  sunny  slopes  beneath  our  skies  of  blue. 


The  world  doesn't  grow  old,  it  renews  its  youth  with 
every  springtime,  and  laughs  at  time  and  change  forever. 
O  happy  earth! 

All  the  land  is  smiling  with  beauty  and  the  air  is  full 
of  fragrance  and  the  songs  of  birds.  Our  abundant 
rains  have  set  the  crown  of  perfection  upon  all  things. 


233 


LAY  SERMONS. 


MRS.  OTIS  was  not  only  a  singer  of  songs, 
she    was    a    preacher   of   sermons,   and 
eloquent  ones.     Here  are  a  few  of  the 
many  she  wrote: 

I. 

THE  SUPREME  HOPE. 

Last  night  the  world  saw  the  sun  go  down  and  the 
glory  of  the  light  melt  into  darkness.  Everywhere  the 
shadows  fell,  and  color  faded,  and  over  all  the  landscape 
was  dimness  and  night. 

But  as  the  darkness  increased,  out  of  the  immensity 
of  the  sky  the  stars  flashed,  and  the  glory  of  their 
brightness  was  revealed.  Men  could  see  then  that  afar 
off  was  the  infinity  of  worlds  and  unnumbered  suns 
circling  through  space  and  proclaiming  by  their  presence 
the. greatness  of  creative  power. 

Thus,  it  seems,  does  the  night  of  sorrow  fall  upon  our 
lives,  bringing  to  them  the  grandest  revelations  of  Divine 
Love  and  Goodness. 

If  there  were  no  night,  what  should  we  know  of  star- 
strewn  space?  Suns  and  planets  would  circle  on  forever, 
sweeping  their  vast  orbits,  hidden  from  our  sight  by  the 
glory  of  the  light.  Beyond  the  limits  of  our  minor 
planet  our  knowledge  could  not  range.  The  sun  of  our 
intelligence  would  be  vastly  lessened,  our  conception  of 
creative  wisdom  be  most  materially  decreased.  And 
thus  it  is  in  the  night  of  man's  sorrow.  Then  the  starry 
hemispheres  of  God's  love  are  revealed,  and  the  vast 
planets  of  His  tender  mercies  swing  into  view.  There 
is  a  white,  Milky  Way,  which  Faith  treads,  lighted  by 
the  suns  of  Hope  and  the  shining  spheres  of  Faith  and 
Trust.  Brighter  than  the  Southern  Cross  is  the  starlit 
cross  of  our  redemption.  The  glory  of  Calvary  lights 
every  zone,  and  sheds  its  beams  upon  every  night  dark 
ened  by  sin,  if  the  sould  but  turn  toward  it. 

The  beauty  of  religion  is  its  joyousness  and  its  clear- 
visioned  trust.  Is  the  Christian  weak,  there  is  Infinite 
strength  to  which  he  may  cling.  Is  he  tempted,  there 
is  One  who  "was  tempted  in  all  points  like  as  we  are, 
yet  without  sin,  and  who  is  touched  with  the  feeling  of 
our  infirmities."  Is  he  sad,  down  through  the  long  ages 
comes  the  voice  to  him,  "Blessed  are  they  who  mourn, 
for  they'  shall  be  comforted."  Is  he  lonely  and  com- 
panionless,  "Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  unto  the 
end  of  the  world."  Does  he  fear  death,  fear  to  go 
away  into  its  silence  and  mystery,  there  is  still  a  tender 
voice  speaking,  "Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the 
Lord."  Is  he  homeless  and  a  wanderer,  divine  compassion 
fails  him  not,  but  affirms,  "In  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you."  Does 
he  fear  disaster  and  failure,  still  like  music' to  his  soul 
he  hears,  "The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  I  shall  not  want; 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures,  He  leadeth 
me  beside  the  still  waters."  Does  sickness  come  to  him 
and  bear  him  down  into  the  very  depths  of  Jordan,  as 
he  enters  the  flood  upon  his  forehead  is  the  touch  of 
Divine  Compassion,  and  ere  his  ear  is  so  dull  that  he 
cannot  hear,  in  accents  tenderer  than  human  speech  comes 
the  voice  of  his  Redeemer,  "Today  thou  shalt  be  with 
me  in  Paradise."^ 

In  view  of  such  a  religion  as  this,  which  meets  every 
human  need,  how  strange  that  man  should  turn  aside 
from  the  simplicity  of  gospel  faith  to  scoff  and  to  doubt ! 

For  ages  the  world  lost  sight  of  immortality.  Super 
stition  held  it  in  darkness.  Idolatry  kept  burning  her 
altar  fires.  Unnumbered  gods  were  worshiped.  Greek 
and  Roman  deities  peopled  Olympus,  and  upon  the 
heights  of  Mars'  Hill  was  reared  a  temple  "to  the 
Unknown  God."  How  kneeled  hoary  old  Egypt  before 


the  shrines  of  Osiris,  Isis  and  Jupiter  Ammon,  in  the 
worship  of  beast  and  bird  and  reptile  along  the  banks 
of  her  sacred  Nile.  How  countless  were  the  followers 
of  Baal  and  bloody  Moloch  among  the  nations  beyond 
Palestine.  Upon  what  a  world  of  doubt  and  hopelessness 
rose  the  Star  of  Bethlehem — the  star  which  for  almost 
two  thousand  years  has  shed  its  light  upon  our  night  of 
sin,  revealing  the  glory  of  redemption. 

Would  we  not  suppose  that  a  religion  thus  adapted  to 
every  human  need,  to  every  noble  desire  of  the  soul, 
would  be  received  with  gladness  by  every  one  who  has 
heard  the  glad  tidings  of  "peace  on  earth,  good-will  to 
man  ?  " 

But  no!  in  Christian  America  today  there  are  the 
worshipers  of  other  gods.  Not  less  in  number  than  the 
Olympian  deities  are  the  idols  which  are  still  set  up 
in  this  and  other  lands.  The  shrine  of  Mammon  is 
thronged  today  as  it  was  before  the  dawn  of  the  Christian 
era,  and  men  we  find  everywhere,  even  under  the  shadows 
of  our  churches,  who  have  their  altars  to  their  unknown 
gods.  The  isms  of  doubt  are  the  pits  into  which  they 
fall.  Skepticism  takes  many  forms.  We  are  surprised 
by  it  in  various  shapes  and  under  various  names. 

There  is  the  materialist,  who  will  tell  you  that  man 
is  nothing  but  a  material  organism,  to  which  conscious 
existence  death  puts  an  end  forever;  that  he  lives  on 
in  the  race,  but  the  individual  perishes.  There  is  nothing 
of  him  but  mere  matter.  How  this  matter  becomes 
possessed  of  intelligence  and  is  capable  of  hope  and 
fear,  of  joy  and  of  sorrow,  is  the  possessor  of  a  con 
science,  of  moral  as  well  as  intellectual  qualities,  he 
does  not  explain.  He  simply  affirms. 

But  what  a  farce  this  materialistic  philosopher  makes 
of  human  life.  "The  chemic  lump  arrives  at  the  plant 
and  grows;  arrives  at  the  quadruped  and  walks;  arrives 
at  man  and  thinks."  Did  heathenism  ever  put  forth 
ideas  more  inconceivable  or  preposterous  than  this?  And 
yet  it  finds  root  in  the  soil  of  a  Christian  land  near  the 
year  2000  of  the  Christian  era.  It  is  the  uplifting  of 
a  puny,  finite  arm  that  would  sweep  God  from  the 
throne  of  His  own  universe,  annihilate  mind,  and  make 
nian  but  the  brother  to  the  clod. 

But  to  the  eye  of  Christian  faith,  above  all  doubt  and 
unbelief,  shines  unhindered  forever  the  day-star  of 
Hope.  Borne  upward  on  the  unfailing  wings  of  divine 
promises,  above  the  surging  seas  of  time,  his  spirit  cries, 
"I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth."  The  waters  of  life's 
ocean  break  for  him  upon  no  darkened  shores  of  unbelief. 
Immortal  vistas  where 

"God's  own  light,  unhindered  and  undarkened 
By  a  sun  shines  forth  alone  in  glory," 

burst  upon  his  view.  Day  dawns,  and  life  without  end 
begins  for  him. 

O  change !     O  wondrous  change ! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars ! 
This  moment  here  so  low, 
So  agonized — and  now 

Beyond  the  stars. 


II. 
NATURE'S   UNIVERSAL   SPEECH. 

Nature  has  by  the  wayside  many  preachers — voices 
speaking  to  men  who  heed  them  not,  eloquent  though  they 
are  with  many  lessons  for  our  help. 

Yonder  is  a  eucalyptus  tree,  thrusting  its  tall  trunk 
upward  eighty  feet  toward  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky. 
How  the  lightest  breeze  sways  its  shimmering  leaves ! 


234 


The  "Everlasting  Anns." 


How  the  sunlight  glorifies  its  topmost  boughs!  The 
earth  at  its  base  lies  in  shadow,  for  the  sun  is  going 
down,  but  there  is  a  golden  glory  upon  its  highest  boughs. 
It  leans  above  the  earth,  and  seems  to  say,  "O  Earth  !  above 
thy  shadows  is  the  sunshine.  Though  you  are  in  dark 
ness,  higher  up  the  light  still  shines.  I  see  beyond  the 
West  where  the  sun  is  sinking,  and  there  is  light  there. 
I  turn  my  face  to  the  East,  where,  when  the  night  has 
passed,  a  new  dawn  will  brighten,  another  day  appear. 
Only  for  a  little  time  are  the  shadow  and  the  night, 
and'  even  they  shall  be  lessened  by  the  coming  of  the  star 
light.  O  Earth !  Earth  !  look  up  !" 

How  like  faith  is  that  monarch  tree  with  its  leaves 
breathing  in  the  upper  air !  How  gloriously  free  and  un 
shackled  is  it !  How  it  drinks  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
shine,  the  purity  of  the  atmosphere !  The  passing  breezes 
toy  with  its  leaves  but  to  give  them  strength.  Slender 
though  their  stems,  they  are  not  broken,  for  they  move 
with  the  breeze  and  float  with  the  currents  of  air.  Oh,  if 
we  were  only  like  them!  If  we  would  but  let  faith  lift 
us  high,  as  'the  tree  lifts  its  swaying  boughs,  where  we 
could  catch  the  light  and  glory  of  God's  love— if,  in 
stead  of  resisting  His  will,  we  would  let  our  lives  be 
swayed  by  His  purposes  and  His  love  as  the  leaves  are 
swayed  by  the  breeze,  we  should  never  be  broken  by  sor 
row  and  disappointment  any  more  than  are  the  tiny  steins 
of  the  leaves  broken  by  the  sweep  of  the  winds  which 
stir  them.  This  is  the  lesson  of  faith  which  the  trees 
teach  us.  And  still  another  lesson  do  they  preach.  When 
the  tempest  comes,  and  black  clouds  of  storm  veil  the 
heavens;  when  the  winds  are  unloosed  and  the  strong 
tempest  bends  them  like  a  blade  of  grass,  how  their  arms 
are  tossed  and  shaken,  and  their  giant  trunks  bend  low 
like  suppliants,  and  then  lift  themselves  again  erect 
against  the  tempest.  How  are  strengthened  the  sturdy 
old  trunks  by  such  battlings,  how  sweeps  with  fresh  vigor 
the  circling  sap  through  their  veins!  There  is  a  new 
shimmer  to  their  leaves,  and  a  sound  like  the  melody  of 
a  wind-harp  through  their  topmost  branches.  So,  for 
you,  O  man,  swept  by  the  tempest  of  temptation,  bowed 
by  the  awful  storm  of  trial  and  sorrow,  yet  helped  by 
God's  grace  to  resist  and  conquer,  when  the  storm  has 
passed,  and  again  you  are  lifted  up  where  the  clear, 
unhindered  light  of'  God's  love  shines  on  you,  you  feel 
stronger  for  the  tempest  through  winch  you  have  passed, 
and  which  has  brought  spiritual  health  to  your  soul. 

Do  you  doubt  God's  love?  Come  with  me  and  look 
upon  this  tender  little  wayside  flower.  It  brightens  no 
garden;  it  is  tended  by  no  human  hands.  Not  long  ago 
it  was  but  a  dry  and  tiny  seed.  The  winds  blew  it  into 
its  resting-place'  and  covered  it  with  sheltering  particles 
of  soil.  The  clouds  gathered  overhead  and  poured  down 
the  gentle  rains  to  water  it.  Then  again  the  winds  blew 
and  dispersed  the  clouds.  Soft  and  warm  fell  the  sun 
light  upon  it.  The  soil  like  a  gentle  mother  nurtured 
it  and  soon  its  roots  unfolded  and  its  leaves  were  lifted 
timidly  above  the  ground.  Day  by  day,  warmed  by  the 
sunlight,  nurtured  by  the  soil,  it  grew,  till  by  and  by, 
above  its  small  green 'leaves  the  perfect  blossoms  unfolded 
to  glad  human  eyes  and  brightened  the  earth.  What 
is  its  voice  to  you?  "If  God  so  clothed  the  flowers  of 
the  field,  how  much  more  shall  he  clothe  you,  O  ye  of 
little  faith!" 

Yonder,  beyond  the  hills,  is  a  field  of  corn.  Every  day 
the  stalks  are  lifted  higher.  Folded  in  its  green  sheath 
the  ear  appears,  and  then  comes  the  full  corn  in  the 
ear.  Day  by  day  it  ripens  until  it  is  ready  for  the 
harvest.  Just  so  much  moisture,  just  so  much  sunshine 
is  needed  for  its  perfection.  Does  Nature  know  how 
much?  No;  but  behind  all  Nature's  laws  is  the  force 
of  intelligent  will.  God  gives  the  sunshine  and  the  shower, 
and  it  is  His  bounty  that  bestows  upon  us  the  ripened 
grain.  "Open  thy  mouth  wide  and  I  will  fill  it,"  He 


saith  to  us  from  every  field  of  corn  and  grain  that  covers 
the  land. 

The  vast  Sierra  wall  lifts  itself  beyond  the  borders  of 
the  Angel  City.  How  grand  and  firm  and  majestic  they 
rise,  as  if  rested  upon  them  the  dome  of  eternal  skies. 
Their  bright  crests  catch  the  first  golden  gleam  of  the 
sunrise  and  the  last  shining  beam  of  the  departing  day. 
Their  rocky  fronts  proclaim  their  strength.  How  do 
they  remind  us  of  the  hiding  places  of  God's  power,  and 
as  the  eagle  circles  above  them,  his  eye  fixed  upon  the 
sun  and  his  strong  pinions  outspread,  we  are  reminded 
of  Jehovah's  promise,  "I  will  cover  thee  with  my  wings — 
in  the  shadow  of  my  wings  ye  may  trust." 

Climb  to  the  heights  about  the  city  and  cast  your  eyes 
over  the  extended  landscape.  Far  and  wide  the  fertile 
plains  stretch  away,  crowned  witli  vineyards  whose  grapes 
are  like  the  grapes  of  Eschol,  with  orchards  lying  upon 
the  borders  of  wide  pastures  where  the  cattle  feed;  view 
the  vast  extent  of  sea,  whose  balmy  breezes  take  from 
our  summers  their  sultry  heat,  and  if  its  billows  are 
lashed  by  tempests  and  broken  upon  the  shore,  hear  the 
voice  saying,  "The  Lord  on  high  is  mightier  than  the 
noise  of  many  waters,  yea,  than  the  mighty  waves  of  the 
sea,"  and  learn  the  unfailing  lesson  of  trust. 

Are  you  a  stranger  among  us,  far  from  home,  and 
weary  and  lonely,  standing  on  these  heights,  view  the 
great  line  of  encircling  hills  which  are  about  us  on  every 
hand,  and  listen  to  the  comforting  words  which  they 
speak  to  you,  "Like  as  the  mountains  are  around  about 
Jerusalem,  so  is  the  Lord  around  about  His  people." 

Traverse  the  plains  where  our  orchards  lift  themselves 
like  emeralds  to  the  sun;  walk  amid  the  green  fields 
of  alfalfa  fed  by  living  moisture,  and  still  again  to 
your  ears  comes  the  voice  of  blessed  hope  for  the  future: 
"The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  I  shall  not  want.  He  maketh 
me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures,  He  leadeth  me  beside 
the  still  waters." 

Do  the  lowlands  still  stretch  out  at  your  feet,  unfolding 
to  the  embracing  hills,  as  you  raise  your  eyes  to  the 
breezy  uplands,  where  the  golden  sunlight  lingers  still, 
your 'soul  thrills  with  exultation  as  you  whisper,  "I  will 
lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from  whence  cometh  my 
help.  My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  who  made  heaven 
and  earth." 

There  is  not  a  mountain  or  hilltop;  not  a  blade  of 
grass  nor  a  budding  flower,  not  a  swaying  leaf  nor  a 
whispering  breeze;  not  a  growing  thing  in  the  world  of 
Nature  but  hath  speech  for  us  of  God's  love  and  care 
for  us,  if  we  will  but  hear  its  voice.  They  are  friends 
and  teachers,  prophets  prophesying  gloriously.  They  tell 
us  that  seed-time  nor  harvest  shall  not  fail  us,  and  that 
God's  eye  is  over  all  and  in  all,  blessed  forever.  The 
immensity  of  sky  proclaims  the  infinitude  of  its  Maker, 
|  and  the  boundless  sunshine  is  the  emblem  of  God's 
immeasurable  love. 


TIT. 
THE  "EVERLASTING  ARMS." 

The  earth  through  our  dry  summer  months  grows  brown 
and  bare.  The  rich  green  of  the  grasses  fades.  The  wild 
flowers  which  lend  a  glory  to  the  hillsides,  and  star  the 
valleys  and  the  plains  with  plenty,  are  withered  and 
dead'.  Only  the  trees,  which  lift  themselves  above  the 
earth,  are  green,  swaying  serenely  in  the  open  air. 

The  brooks,  too,  are  dry,  and  the  rivers  sink  below  their 
bed  of  white  sands,  and  the  melody  of  running  waters 
is  stilled.  In  the  glare  of  the  hot  sun  the  earth  is  parched 
and  thirsty,  and  growth  is  slow. 

So  it  is 'of  ten  in  the  summer  of  man's  prosperity, 
running  rills  of  trust  are  dry,  the  strong  rivers  of  faith 


235 


Lay  Sermons. 


sink  beneath  the  sands  of  worklliness,  and  the  soil  of  our 
hearts  is  parched  with  the  fever  of  gain. 

Prosperity  is  not  always  the  richest  boon  that  can  be 
given  to  man,  for  it  is  not  that  which  stirs  the  roots  of 
his  finer  feelings,  it  is  not  that  which  is  promotive  of 
moral  inspiration  and  a  quick  spiritual  life. 

Prosperity  is  like  our  summer.  Its  atmosphere  is  warm 
and  pleasant,  and  we  love  to  sun  ourselves  in  its  light. 
In  the  gardens  of  blossoming  plants  we  love  to  walk,  and 
lie  contentedly  beneath  the  boughs  of  worldly  hopes.  We 
muse  upon  our  future  and  see  ourselves  growing  rich 
and  influential.  The  years  spread  out  before  us  and  our 
corn  and  grain  increase;  our  houses  and  our  lands  are 
multiplied.  Men  bow  before  us,  for  they  honor  success, 
and  our  children  sit  in  the  gates.  The  best  that  earth 
can  give  is  ours.  We  eat  of  the  fatness  of  the  land,  and 
our  mouths  are  satisfied.  Milk  and  honey  and  wine  are 
poured  into  our  storehouses,  and  our  coffers  are  filled 
with  silver  and  gold.  Xo  shadow  is  upon  the  heights 
where  we  stand  and  no  darkness  of  cloud  is  above  our 
head.  What  wonder  that  the  spiritual  rills  of  our  nature 
are  dry,  and  that  we  are  satisfied  with  the  fleshpots  of 
Egypt 'and  long  never  for  the  fullness  of  Canaan. 

"This  world  is  good  enough  for  us,"  we  say;  "it  is  one 
of  ease  and  luxury  and  pleasure.  Every  day  do  our 
coffers  grow  in  fullness,  and  the  grandeur  of  success  is 
achieved.  I  am  sufficient  unto  myself." 

But  let  sorrow  come.  Let  business  failure  overwhelm 
you.  Let  death  enter  the  home-circle  and  take  from  it 
the  one  most  dearly  loved;  where  then,  O  man,  is  the 
greatness  of  thy  strength?  where  the  pride  that  lifted 
thee  up  and  set  thee  upon  high  places?  Where  is  the 
fullness  with  which  thou  wast  satisfied?  Earth  has  none 
of  it  left.  Then  it  is  that  the  poverty  of  this  life  stands 
forth,  and  the  nakedness  of  thy  soul  is  discovered.  But 
blessed  art  thou  if  into  this  eventide  of  thy  sorrow  there 
cometh  light;  if  upon  thy  dry  and  thirsty  heart  is  poured 
the  dews  of  divine  love  and  the  rains  of  comforting 
grace.  How,  then,  shalt  thy  soul  blossom  anew  in  its 
gladness,  and  thy  hopes  take  hold  upon  the  blessedness 
of  immortality !  Sorrow  is  a  benediction  in  that  it  shows 
us  our  helplessness  and  our  need  of  a  Divine  Helper. 
It  is  a  blessing,  too,  in  that  it  tends  to  quicken  human 
sympathies;  but  most  of  all  is  God's  love  revealed  to  us 
through  sorrow  if  it  leads  us  to  Him  who  was  "a  man  of 
sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief."  Then  is  the  winter 
ot  our  life  made  glorious.  How  are  all  spiritual  graces 
watered  by  tears,  M'hile  through  each  one  shines  the  rain 
bow  of  hope,  and  the  light  of  Love  Divine.  "The  Lord 
loveth  whom  He  chasteneth." 

And  that  love!  It  was  from  it  that  the  world  sprang. 
It  was  that  which  brightened  Eden,  and  shed  the  fullness 
of  Hope  upon  the  darkness  of  Calvary.  It  was  that 
which  opened  the  door  of  the  tomb  upon  the  morning 
of  the  resurrection  in  the  lonely  garden.  It  is  that  which 
dispels  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  and  makes  the  dying 
bed  a  mount  of  vision.  It  is  that  which  takes  from  death 
its  sting  and  makes  us  "conquerors  and  more  than  con 
querors  through  Him  who  hath  loved  us." 

There  are  no  dry  and  sunburnt  wastes  in  the  life  that 
God  has  redeemed.  Xo  hunger  of  souls,  no  unsatisfied 
longings.  Men  stand  there  on  the  high  levels  of  trust, 
and  though  the  darkness  may  be  round  about  them,  and 
destruction  threaten  to  overwhelm  them,  they  know  that 
beneath  them  are  "the  everlasting  arms."  Man  is  happy 
when  his  higher  or  spiritual  nature  is  satisfied.  All  ills 
that  befall  him  then  are  lesser  ills,  over  which  the  spirit 
may  triumph.  With  his  will  subservient  to  God's  will 
there  is  no  conflict.  All  warring  passions  are  hushed,  all 
struggling  has  ceased.  As  in  subjection  to  the  law  there 
is  liberty,  so  in  man's  submission  to  the  infinite  will  is 
there  the  largest  freedom  and  happiness.  So,  too,  is 
there  the  largest  growth  and  the  truest  development  of 
man's  nature.  Our  spiritual  athletes  are  those  who  do 


most  frequent  and  successful  battle  with  temptation. 
Our  modern  Davids  are  those  who  have  slain  the  Goliath 
of  sinful  lusts  and  have  put  on  the  breast-plate  of  right 
eousness.  Sorrow  is  God's  hand  stretched  out  to  us  by  which 
He  would  lead  us.  It  is  the  rod  with  which  the  rock 
is  smitten  that  the  waters  may  gush  out  that  shall  satisfy 
the  thirst  of  our  spirits,  which  have  wandered  in  the 
desert  of  sin  and  found  no  living  fountain  of  which  it 
might  drink.  The  greatest  blessings  which  we  receive 
ofttimes  come  to  us  through  the  benediction  of  suffering. 


IV. 

REDEEMED. 

It  is  beautiful  to  watch  the  night  fade  and  behold  the 
coming  of  the  Morn. 

Looking  to  the  East,  there  is  the  faintest  shade  of  rosy 
purple  which  warms  and  brightens  until  a  soft  line  of 
amber  marks  the  yet  unopened  portals  of  the  Day.  From 
that  the  light  creeps  upward.  In  the  whole  broad  East 
the  darkness  is  melting;  the  purple  shadows  are  gone. 
The  hills  are  born  anew  out  of  the  womb  of  Night.  Each 
wears  upon  its  crest  a  shining  crown.  Golden  arrows 
of  light  shoot  downward,  pale  amber,  rose  and  crimson; 
and  the  faintest  warm  violet  border;  in  the  East  the 
deep,  overhanging  blue  of  the  sky.  The  amber  brightens, 
its  pale  shade  turns  to  shining  gold.  In  all  the  branches 
of  the  trees  birds  twitter,  and,  lo!  the  million  diamonds 
of  dew  upon  the  grass!  The  faintest  breezes  stir,  and 
the  gates  of  the  day  swing  wide.  The  shining  sun  stands 
on  the  threshold  of  the  morn,  and  day  has  come. 

So  out  of  the  night  of  Death  breaks  the  resplendent  light 
of  the  eternal  morning.  All  the  shadows  of  time  fade, 
all  its  darkness  vanishes.  The  glory  of  immortality  is 
shadowless.  Its  brightness  is  unhindered  by  a  cloud. 
Xo  gloom  rests  upon  it.  The  Eternal  City  with  its  gates 
of  pearl  is  transcendent  in  its  brightness,  for  "the  Lord 
God  is  the  Light  thereof." 

Death  is  beautiful  to  the  Christian,  first  of  all,  because 
it  brings  freedom  from  sin.  Xo  more  wrestling  with 
temptation  and  besetting  doubts  and  fear.  Redemption 
is  accomplished.  The  fetters  of  fraility  and  human 
weakness  are  broken,  and  the  redeemed  one,  in  the  new 
life,  stands  "conqueror  and  more  than  conqueror  through 
Ilim  who  hath  loved  him." 

Death  is  desirable  also  for  the  larger  life  that  it 
brings — the  spiritual  expansion — the  change  from  seeing 
"through  a  glass,  darkly,"  to  that  of  seeing  "face  to 
face."  Xo  longer  will  the  Eternal  Father  be"  a  mystery 
to  us,  for  there  we  "shall  see  Him  as  He  is."  The  eternal 
morning  will  be  brightened  by  His  presence.  Side  by 
side  with  "our  Elder  Brother" — the  Redeemer  of  men — 
shall  we  walk  the  golden  streets  of  the  Xew  Jerusalem, 
and  sit  with  Him  in  "the  many  mansions."  The  melody 
of  heaven  will  fill  our  ears,  and  the  grandeur  of  the 
created  universe  sweep  before  our  unhindered  vision. 

The  home  of  the  Infinite  may  be  the  center  about  which 
all  worlds  do  circle,  and  standing  by  it  we  shall  hear 
"the  morning  stars  sing  together,  and  all  the  sons  of 
God  shout  for  joy."  From  the  mightiest  planets  of  the 
skies  may  come  other  souls  to  share  with  us  the  glory 
and  the  bliss  of  the  eternal  years,  but  among  them  all 
none  will  stand  nearer  to  the  loving  Father  than  we 
whose  blessed  immortality  has  been  purchased  through 
the  blood  of  Christ.  The  sweetest  song  of  heaven  will  be 
the  song  of  the  redeemed,  from  whose  faces  all  tears 
shall  be  wiped  away,  and  to  whom  shall  come  no  more 
sorrow,  nor  any  more  pain,  nor  any  more  death. 

Fled  forever  the  cares  of  earth,  its  changes  and  sorrows. 
Xo  more  beds  of  anguish  and  of  wasting  sickness.  No 
more  battling  with  wrong  and  falling  by  the  way.  Xo 


236 


Gleams  of  Immortality. 


more  bitter  regrets  and  remorse,  and  sense  of  weakness 
and  helplessness.  Faith  will  have  wings  and  weakness  be 
changed  to  strength. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  unfolding  of  Divine  Love !  Oh,  the 
moment  of  breathless  interest  when  shall  be  unveiled  to 
us  the  Father's  face!  Oh,  the  inconceivable  glory,  and 
majesty,  and  tenderness  that  will  shine  upon  us  there! 
Ohj  the  floods  of  new  life  and  gladness  that  will  overflow 
us!  We  shall  feel  that  the  fullness  of  being  has  been 
attained,  and  we  shall  be  ready  to  drink  at  the  fountain 
of  eternal  wisdom  through  the  endless  ages  of  immor 
tality. 

Oh,  blessed  death  that  brings  to  us  this  longer  life,  this 
cloudless,  eternal  day!  "O  Death!  where  is  thy  sting? 
O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory?" 


V. 
GLEAMS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 

Nature  for  many  days  has  been  under  a  cloud.  We 
have  walked  beneath  a  gray  canopy  of  mist,  and  all  the 
golden  tints  of  the  sunshine  have  been  veiled.  But  above 
that  gray  curtain  of  cloud  we  knew  that  the  sun  was 
shining,  'and  that  sooner  or  later  it  would  break  forth 
in  its  splendor,  wrapping  the  world  in  its  light  and 
glorifying  all  things.  And  when  yesterday  the  clouds 
vanished  and  the  sky  was  spread  above  us  like  a  grand 
dome  of  blue,  radiant  with  light  and  filled  with  warmth, 
there  was  no  surprise,  for  it  was  but  what  we  had  looked 
and  waited  for.  We  knew  that  God's  hand  held  the 
universe,  and  that  the  order  of  things  would  not  change. 
And  why,  O  Christian,  should  not  our  faith  be  as  strong 
in  Our  Father  in  spiritual  things  as  in  the  things  of  this 
world?  Is  this  natural  world  more  to  Him  than  the  souls 
of  His  children,  and  the  promises  which  He  has  given 
them?  Where  is  the  Christian's  faith  that  he  should  ever 
be  despondent,  when,  "Like  as  a  Father  pitieth  His 
children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth  those  who  fear  Him."  O 
days  of  clouds  and  sorrow,  of  disappointment  and  grief, 
why  are  we  overlooked  by  them  when  still  the  promise  is 
ours,  that  "These  light  'afflictions  which  are  but  for  a 
moment  shall  work  for  us  a  far  more  exceeding  and 
eternal  weight  of  glory!" 

Sorrow  is  one  of  God's  most  blessed  angels,  and  the 
peace  which  it  will  ultimately  give  is  sweeter  and  holier 
than  ever  joy  alone  could  bring  us.  Sanctified  sorrow  is 
God's  best  gift  to  us.  It  sets  the  eternal  gates  ajar, 
and  gives  us  glimpses  of  our  heavenly  inheritance.  We 
may  rejoice  in  this  world,  for  it  is  pleasant,  but  we  see 
beyond  it  a  better  one  which  is  eternal,  and  the  heavenly 
mansion  "whose  builder  and  maker  is  God." 

Have  our  friends  passed  over  to  the  celestial  shores, 
we  feel  that  we  have,  then,  an  earthly  center  in  that 
land  as  well  as  a  heavenly  one;  that  there  is  human  as 
well  as  divine  love  awaiting  us  there,  hearts  whose  celestial 
feelings  are  tenderer  than  they  were  when  with  us,  in 
that  the  heavenly  life  is  larger  and  more  complete,  and 
the  earth  dross  is  all  swept  away.  We  feel  that  heaven 
and  earth  are  wedded  now,  since  so  much  earthly  love  is 
there,  and  sometimes  we  fancy  that  Jesus,  our  "Klder 
Brother,"  may  walk  "in  the  green  pastures  and  beside 
the  still  waters,"  and  talk  with  our  beloved  of  His 
purposes  toward  us  and  His  pity  for  us  amid  earth's 
struggles  and  pains,  and  that  down  through  the  sun- 
lighted  stillness  of  space  the  thrill  of  His  tenderness 
may  reach  us  to  gladden  and  strengthen  us.  Why  put 
the  Infinite  and  Omnipresent  so  far  away  when  faith  and 
sorrow  may  bring  them  so  near?  Why  walk  as  if  alone 
and  uncomforted,  when 


"God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day 

And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 
And  Heaven' 


s  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
s  children  suffer  here?" 


For  all  His 

Into  all  the  deeps  of  human  sorrow  may  fall  the 
sweet  and  placid  sunshine  of  God's  love,  and  the  voice 
of  Hope  may  penetrate  our  ears  above  the  noise  and  the 
confusion  of  the  tempest,  saying:  "Sorrow  endureth  but 
for  the  night;  jo\  cometli  with  the  morning." 

We  weigli  life's  worth  by  its  uses  and  its  ends.  If  it 
were  our  lot  to  be  only  for  a  few  short  years,  to  suffer 
and  endure  and  then  perish,  small  would  be  the  value  of 
this  earthly  existence,  for  it  would  not  mean  anything. 
The  universe  would  be,  in  the  end,  no  better  for  all  that 
men  do  and  achieve.  But  when  through  the  shadow  of 
death  the  gleams  of  immortality  break,  and  the  promises 
of  God  are  sure,  then  it  is  that  the  heart  grows 
triumphant  even  amid  its  tears,  and  the  sense  of  life's 
vastness  and  its  worth,  together  with  faith  in  the 
imperishable  love  of  God,  brings  us  consolation.  Life  is 
worth  living,  if  we  live  it  well,  for  after  it  is  all  over 
we  may  enter  into  our  inheritance,  "which  is  incorrupti 
ble,  unclefiled  and  which  passeth  not  away." 


VI. 
JOY  IX  SERVICE. 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  bounteousness  of  the 
sunshine  —  how  it  floods  every  mountain  peak,  every  broad 
valley,  every  deep  and  quiet  canon,  and  the  wide  sea? 
There  is  no  part  of  the  earth  that  is  not  touched  by  it; 
no  plant,  nor  leaf,  nor  blade  of  grass,  nor  flower,  nor 
tree  that  is  not  nurtured  by  its  influence  and  glorified 
by  its  beams.  Even  the  night  is  brightened  by  it,  for 
afar  off  through  the  trackless  realms  of  space  are  set 
countless  suns  lighting  unnumbered  planetary  spheres, 
which  shed  their  reflected  glory  upon  our  night.  Light 
is  everywhere,  brightening  the  universe,  and  bringing  its 
revelations  of  creative  power  and  goodness.  It  permeates 
the  earth;  it  floods  the  skies;  it  illuminates  the  seas,  and 
there  are  star-beams  reaching  unbroken  from  the  earth 
to  the  farthest  worlds  that  we  can  see  through  the  aid 
of  the  telescope  —  a  wonder  of  glory  are  they,  a  marvel 
of  divine  power,  a  voice  of  God  to  us.  "The  heavens 
declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  the  firmament  showeth 
His  handiwork.  Day  unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and 
night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge.  There  is  no  speech 
or  language  where  His  voice  is  not  heard." 

And  so  over  the  race  is  the  blessed  light  of  God's  love, 
powerful  and  deep;  all-permeating  and  all-abounding. 
Can  you  escape  from  it  —  can  you  go  so  far  over  seas  of 
sorrow,  across  continents  of  doubt,  onward  to  isles  of 
sophistry,  past  frozen  icebergs  of  dead  faith,  and  into 
the  clouded  night  of  superstition,  that  it  shall  not  reach 
you?  Xo.  It  will  follow  you  still,  as  the  starbeams  and 
as  the  sunlight  never-failing,  though  you  may  not  per 
ceive  it,  and  it  will  be  all  about  you  like  the  atmosphere 
which  you  breathe. 

Ah,  what  a  heart  is  that  of  the  Infinite  Father! 
a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  His  notice, 
even  the  very  hairs  of  your  head  are  all  numbered." 

"Ah,  but  I  have  trouble,"  you  say,  "and  cares 
sorrows  and  disappointments.  I  grow  weary  of 
sometimes;  its  burdens  seem  heavy;  and  its  hope 
dim.  I  can  see  no  light  in  all  the  gray,  cold  horizon 
before  me.  I  hear  no  song  of  bird,  no  voice  of  melody; 
nothing  but  clouds  and  darkness  encompass  me." 

But  be  joyful  and  open  your  eyes  to  the  light  of  God's 
truth,  and  your  ears  to  His  voice,  saying:  "Like  as  a 
father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth  those  that 


Xot 
and 

and 
life 
are 


237 


Lay  Sermons. 


fear  Him."  Know  that  He  is  a  "friend  who  sticketh 
closer  than  a  brother,"  and  that  these  "light  afflictions, 
which  are  but  for  a  moment,  work  for  us  a  far  more 
exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory." 

You  have  a  little  child ;  it  goes  astray  sometimes.  The 
puny,  helpless  thing  disobeys  you.  If  you  take  no  note 
of  its  disobedience  the  loving  heart  of  your  child  will 
be  changed.  It  will  grow  up  into  waywardness,  to 
selfishness  and  rebellion,  ignoring  your  authority  and 
seeking  its  own  will.  But  you  love  this  little  one  never 
theless,  for  are  you  not  its  father?  and  with  great  tender 
ness  you  set  yourself  to  bending  its  will  to  your  own. 
The  child  is  not  pleased  with  the  punishment  which  you 
inflict;  it  sees  no  love  in  the  correction  which  you  give  it, 
but  by  and  by  it  yields  to  you,  and  later  it  discerns  the 
strong  cords  of  love  which  bind  you  to  it,  and  severity  is 
no  longer  needed.  Whatever  you  bid  it  do,  it  does 
cheerfully,  and  it  trusts  in  you. 

So,  O  man,  does  Our  Father  deal  with  us,  till  by  and 
by,  out  of  the  pain  of  discipline  and  the  sorrow  of  re 
bellion,  comes  the  clear,  shining  morning  of  faith,  when 
we  can  look  up  and  say,  "Yea,  though  he  slay  me,  yet 
will  I  trust  Him,"  and  over  the  fogs  and  the  mists  and 
the  darkness  of  this  world  our  clear-visioned  eyes  look 
out  to  the  glory  and  the  brightness  of  the  life  to  come. 

Discipline  gives  us  strength.  The  man  who  has  never 
been  tempted  is  not  the  strong  man.  The  man  who  has 
never  been  called  to  resist  temptation,  who  has  never  been 
compelled  to  fight  any  battles  with  bis  evil  and  sinful 
inclinations,  is  not  the  triumphant  and  exulting  warrior 
who  sings:  "I  have  fought  the  good  fight,  I  have  kept 
the  faith,  henceforth  there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of 
righteousness."  No;  it  is  through  much  tribulation  that 
we  enter  into  the  kingdom.  The  most  spotless  robes 
among  the  immortal  saved  will  be  those  worn  by  those 
who  have  been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Redeemer,  and 
been  made  "perfect  through  suffering."  Oh,  the  allelu- 
iahs  that  martyrs  will  raise,  and  the  glory  of  the  shin 
ing  crowns  that  they  will  wear!  Starry  crowns  will 
they  be,  for  through' their  steadfastness  men  will  be  led 
to  trust  like  them,  and  to  conquer. 

And  oh,  the  joys  and  the  blessedness  of  immortality ! 
They  are  without  measure  and  without  end!  Heaven  is 
forever.  No  storms  can  sweep  its  skies;  no  doubt  cloud 
its  sunshine;  no  fear  disturb  its  gladness.  Face  to  face 
with  the  Redeemer  walk  the  redeemed,  "into  green  pas 
tures  and  beside  the  still  waters,"  as  through  the  streets 
of  the  city  of  the  new  Jerusalem.  The  love  of  Christ 
is  like  a  river,  which  "maketh  glad  the  city  of  our  God." 
It  sweeps  onward,  like  a  glorious  anthem  filling  our  ears. 
The  melody  of  heaven  would  be  soundless  without  it. 

The  Christian  life  is  not  a  sad  life,  for  it  is  full  of  hope 
• — it  is  full  of  riches.  Everything  which  we  behold  is 
our  Father's.  We  are  rich  in  all  that  His  hand  has 
made.  The  gates  of  pearl  and  the  gold  of  heaven  are  ours. 
The  streets  of  Paradise  were  paved  for  our  feet.  Eter 
nity  without  end,  filled  with  all  its  joys,  is  for  us.  Into 
the  mysteries  of  our  redemption,  so  full  of  wondrous 
love,  so  crowned  with  divine  pity,  the  angels  desire  to 
look  but  are  not  able.  Higher  seats  than  theirs  are  those 
kept  for  redeemed  man.  The  God  incarnate  is  his  brother 
as  well  as  his  Refleemer  and  Creator.  Oh,  wonderful 
mystery!  Oh,  ecstatic  joy!  Let  the  sorrows  of  earth  slip 
by  us,  while  we  "fight  the  good  fight  of  faith  and  finish 
our  course.  At  the  end  is  the  crown,  and  the  robes  of 
Christ's  righteousness,  and  the  welcome  plaudit.  Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servants;  enter  ye  into  the 
joy  of  your  Lord."  How  then  shall  our  souls  be  satis 
fied  when  we  awake  in  His  likeness. 


VII. 

LIFE  IS  INDEED  WORTH  LIVING. 

We  sometimes  hear  the  question  asked,  "Is  life  worth 
living?"  In  answering  this  inquiry,  there  is  still  another 
question  of  overwhelming  importance  to  be  considered 
in  connection  witn  it.  It  is  this:  For  what  purpose  is 
life  given  us?  It  is  the  end  to  be  attained  which  makes 
existence  valuable  or  otherwise.  If  this  be  all  of  life — 
these  shadowy,  fleeting  days,  into  almost  every  one  of 
which  some  sorrow  creeps,  and  into  all  of  which  some 
shade  of  disappointment  must  enter — we  well  may  hesi 
tate  before  we  reply. 

If  we  look,  too,  at  the  number  of  wasted  lives,  given 
over  to  dissipation  and  folly,  and,  worse  still,  to  crime, 
the  question  comes  home  to  us  with  more  potency  than 
ever. 

If  we  consider,  also,  the  butterfly  existence  of  many, 
living  simply  for  pleasure,  having  no  delight  in  anything 
beyond  social  display  anu  idle  gayety,  the  question  again 
recurs  to  us,  "Is  life  worth  living?"  If  we  look  at  the 
world  of  business,  and  see  men  whose  every  energy  is 
devoted  to  securing  wealth,  who  have  no  thought  nor  am 
bition  beyond  their  business  pursuits,  yet  who  battle 
bravely  with  disappointment,  and  evince  an  unconquer 
able  heroism  in  overcoming  the  obstacles  in  the  way  to 
their  success,  and  ultimately  win  all  that  they  have  strug 
gled  for,  so  that  in  the  evening  of  their  days  they  can 
sit  down  in  the  enjoyment  of  what  they  have  achieved, 
can  we,  if  this  be  all — if  beyond  the  evening  of  old  age, 
with  the  infirmities  and  the  failing  strength,  and  the 
weakening  faculties,  there  be  no  glad  morning  for  the 
spirit — assert  that  life  is  worth  living? 

But  there  is  a  mistake  in  this  question.  Men  have  not 
framed  it  aright.  The  question  for  us  to  consider  is 
simply  this:  Shall  I  so  shape  my  life,  so  mold  its  pur 
poses,  so  direct  its  aims,  so  spiritualize  its  hopes  as  to 
make  it  worth  living? 

A  human  life!  In  its  broadest  sense  what  does  it 
mean?  An  eternity  of  existence,  either  for  joy  or  for 
sorrow.  No  little  today  can  bound  it.  All  the  yester 
days  and  all  the  tomorrows  of  time  are  not  vast  enough 
for  its  circumference.  It  is  a  force  projected  into  all 
the  eternal  future.  Nothing  can  hinder  its  being  felt, 
nothing  can  annihilate  its  individuality. 

It  is  not  those  who  contemplate  life  with  a  large  spirit 
ual  vision,  who  recognize  their  obligations  to  a  divine 
power,  and  bear  about  them  a  continued  sense  of  respon 
sibility  who  raise  the  sad  interrogation  which  voices  the 
spirit  of  skepticism,  "Is  life  worth  living?"  They  are 
like  the  brook  which  runs  always,  singing  to  the  sea. 
Over  them  always  are  the  bending  skies  of  Infinite  Love. 
Faith  reveals  to  them  the  silver  lining  to  every  cloud. 
In  the  misfortunes,  disappointments,  trials  and  sorrows 
of  life  they  recognize  their  needed  discipline.  No  doubt 
overwhelms  them,  and  beyond  life's  vexing  cares  they 
are  assured  that  there  is  peace  and  rest.  They  have  the 
spirit  of  the  warrior,  and  they  do  brave  battling  with 
wrong.  Though  wounded  sometimes,  their  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  the  glorious  banner  of  Christ's  Righteousness.  Be 
yond  the  battlements  of  time  is  the  crown  which  their 
Great  Captain — the  Lord  of  Hosts — has  in  reserve  for 
them — and  there  are  the  glorious  uniforms — the  robes  of 
the  redeemed  in  the  chambers  of  the  skies.  And  what  is 
more,  there  is  eternal  life,  eternal  progress,  eternal  joy. 
Ah,  is  not  life  worth  living  with  all  these  at  the  end? 

But,  as  night  falls  upon  the  world,  so  does  night  some 
times  fall  upon  the  soul — a  night  of  doubt,  of  blind 
questioning  and  unbelief.  Human  lips  could  scarcely 
frame  a  sadder  petition  than  the  one  said  to  have  been 
offered  by  a  poor,  trembling  soldier  upon  the  eve  of 
battle: 


238 


The  Tree  of  Life. 


"O  God,  if  there  be  a  God,  save  mv  soul,  if  I  have  a 
soul." 

It  was  the  lack  of  faith  which  lent  piteousness  and 
pathos  to  this  cry  to  the  Infinite  Father.  It  was  no 
voice  of  trusting  prayer  poured  into  the  ear  of  the 
Helper  by  the  Helpless;  it  was  the  despairing  cry  of  one 
who  felt  the  need  of  that  infinite  tenderness  and  pity 
which  God  has  for  his  children,  but  who  in  the  darkness 
01  doubt  trembled  upon  the  brink  of  the  unknown. 

Look  at  a  soul  like  that,  fronting  the  life  to  come, 
and  all  the  dread  mystery  of  death,  with  no  ray  of  faith 
to  shed  its  light  upon  the  darkness,  and  you"  need  not 
wonder  if  from  the  lips  of  such  a  one  you  hear  the 
mournful  interrogation,  "Is  life  worth  living?" 

But  to  those  who  believe  in  a  Supreme  Presence  over 
ruling  all  things  for  the  good  of  His  children,  and  whose 
Omnipotent  Hand  is  upon  the  helm  of  the  universe,  there 
is  a  spirit  of  rejoicing  even  in  sorrow;  the  soul  is  tri 
umphant  over  the  weakness  of  the  flesh,  and  nothing  can 
bar  them  out  from  God's  protecting  love;  nothing  can 
quench  their  faith  or  destroy  the  sweetness  of  their  trust. 
Life  is  worth  living,  for  it  is  a  sure  stepping-stone  to  im 
mortality;  it  is  their  field  of  labor  wherein  they  lay  up 
treasures  for  a  life  to  come,  and  about  them  everywhere 
are  the  visible  tokens  of  God's  love.  The  starry  skies  and 
the  flooding  sunshine;  the  beauty  of  tree  and  flower;  the 
majesty  of  the  mountains  and  the  loneliness  of  the  plains; 
the  swelling  of  tides  and  the  infinite  deeps  of  ether  are 
but  the  visible  signs  of  that  Infinite  Presence  in  which  all 
Nature  rejoices,  and  whose  glorious  and  sure  rewards  of 
trusting  obedience  and  intelligent  faith  make  life,  bevond 
all  doubt,  worth  living. 


VIII. 
THE  TREE  OF  LIFE. 

There  are  men  who  say  that  the  Bible  is  no  more  to 
them  than  any  other  book.  That  its  grand  truths  are 
like  so  many  myths;  its  wise  teachings  and  beautiful 
parables  are  not  the  utterances  of  inspiration,  but  of 
well-regulated  philosophy  which  it  is  well  enough  for  us 
to  heed  so  far  as  it  is  promotive  of  our  happiness. 

But  take  all  the  books  that  have  ever  been  written 
by  the  wise  men  of  all  ages  and  all  lands,  and  where 
do  we  find  one  that  so  fully  answers  to  every  human 
need  as  does  the  Christian  Bible?  What  other  book  goes 
back  to  "the  beginning"  and  gives  to  us  a  rational 
story  of  the  Creation,  and  of  the  redemption  of  the  race? 
From  what  other  source  did  man  ever  draw  such  wisdom; 
such  knowledge  of  himself;  such  pleas  for  the  right 
and  such  condemnation  of  the  wong  as  from  His  living 
word?  Through  what  other  source  is  borne  to  human 
ears  the  song  of  the  morning  stars  as  they  sang  together 
while  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy,  as  the  work 
of  creation  was  complete?  Who  like  the  prophets  of 
old,  who  spake  through  these  pages,  has  been  able  to 
look  down  through  the  long  vistas  of  time  and  foretell 
what  was  to  be?  Where  else  can  we  find  a  Cross  and  a 
Redeemer,  bearing  our  sins,  and  opening  for  us  the 
doors  of  an  eternal  Paradise?  What  book  is  there  in  all 
the  wide  realms  of  the  world's  literature  that  so  answers 
every  yearning  of  the  human  heart,  that  is  so  pure  and 
ennobling  in  its  tendencies?  On  the  pages  of  what 
other  volume  can  we  find  a  philosophy  which  will  enable 
men  to  triumph  over  death  and  to  rejoice  amid  the 
flames  of  martyrdom?  Where  else  such'  glorious  hopes 
and  such  triumphant  assurances?  Even  a  Cicero,  in 
speaking  of  the  hopes  of  the  future,  was  compelled  to 
exclaim,  "All  things  are  involved  in  deep  obscurity,"  and 
the  last  and  highest  effort  of  Grecian  philosophy  reached 
no  further  than  to  erect  an  altar  "to  the  Unknown  God?" 


239 


Equally  ignorant  were  all  the  heathen  ancients  in 
regard  to  creation.  The  great  First  Cause— the  Divine 
Creator,  was  beyond  their  conception.  Sages  and  phil 
osophers  of  antiquity  believed  matter  to  be  eternal. 
Their  most  brilliant  fancy  could  conceive  of  no  gods 
mighty  enough  to  form  something  out  of  nothing  Crea 
tive  power  was  a  thing  undreamed  of.  "Out  of  nothing 
nothing  could  be  made,"  they  held  to  be  an  incontro 
vertible  axiom.  But  how  numerous  the  gods  they  wor 
shiped,  and  how  full  of  human  passions  and  human 
frailties  were  they  all.  How  blindly  men  groped  after 
a  knowledge  of  the  will  of  these  gods,  and  how  constant 
the  fear  of  their  displeasure.  The  gods  of  the  people 
were  a  great  multitude,  and  their  so-called  religious  life 
was  a  burden  of  vows  and  sacrifices.  Rome's  deities 
were  those  of  all  lands,  which  she  had  conquered,  and 
corrupt  Egypt  worshiped  with  shameful  rites  her  Osiris, 
Serapis,  Isis  and  others.  Brahminism  had  its  three 
principal  gods— Brahma,  Vishnu  and  Siva— and  in  its 
essence  is  nothing  but  polytheism,  or  rather  pantheism, 
teaching  that  at  the  end  of  every  calpa,  or  formation, 
"all  things  are  absorbed  in  the  Deity,"  and  that  "at  a 
stated  time  the  creative  power  will  again  be  called  into 
action." 

China  and  Eastern  Asia  followed  Buddhism,  which  in 
effect  is  little  less  than  sheer  atheism. 

Socrates,  great  and  wise  as  he  was,  yet  believed  in 
many  gods,  and  declared  that  "a  wise  'and  good  man 
ought  to  worship  the  gods  recognized  by  the  country  to 
which  he  belonged,"  while  the  able  Seneca  affin'ned, 
"whatever  that  be  which  has  determined  our  lives  and 
our  deaths,  it  binds  the  gods  also  by  the  same  necessity; 
human  and  divine  things  alike  are  carried  along  an 
irrevocable  course." 

And  the  learned  Aristotle  declared:  "The  chief  deity 
resides  in  the  celestial  sphere  and  observes  nothing  and 
cares  for  nothing  beyond  himself." 

How  unlike  is  this  hopeless  loneliness  of  the  soul  to 
the  faith  which  the  Bible  gives  us  in  Our  Father's  divine 
tenderness  when  it  says:  "Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his 
children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth  those  who  fear  Him."  "For 
God  so  loved  the  world  that  He  gave  His  only  begotten 
Son  that  whosoever  believeth  in  Him  should  not  perish 
but  have  everlasting  life."  Listen  yet  farther  to  the 
cheerful  utterances  of  the  Book  upon  which  we  build 
our  faith.  "In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens 
and  the  earth." 

"He  upholdeth  all  things  by  the  word  of  His  power, 
and  by  Him  all  tilings  consist!" 

"He  maketh  His  sun  to  rise  upon  the  evil  and  the 
good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  the  unjust." 

"He  feedeth  the  fowls  of  the  air;  He  arrays  the  lilies 
of  the  field  as  was  not  Solomon  in  all  his  glory." 

"He  is  the  God  and  Father  of  us  all;  in  Him  all  live 
and  move  and  have  their  being." 

There  is  no  doubt  here.  The  soul  has  found  its  blessed 
anchor  of  hope.  Contrast  this  assurance  of  Christian 
faith  with  the  world  wisdom  of  the  past.  "The  aim  of 
all  philosophy,"  says  Seneca,  "is  to  despise  life.  Seest 
thou  yon  steep  height?  Thence  is  the  descent  to  freedom. 
Seest  thou  yon  sea,  yon  river,  yon  well?  Freedom  sits 
there  in  the  depths.  Seest  thou  yon  low  withered  tree? 
There  freedom  hangs.  Seest  thou  thy  neck,  thy  throat, 
thy  heart?  They  are  the  ways  of  escape  from  bondage." 

Again,  mournfully  sings  Anacreon,  the  devotee  of 
pleasure:  "My  temples  are  gray,  and  white  my  head; 
beautiful  youth  is  gone.  Not  much  remains  of  sweet 
life.  Therefore  I  often  sigh,  fearing  Tartarus,  dreadful 
abyss  of  Hades.  Full  of  horror  is  the  descent  thither, 
and  whoever  has  once  gone  down  there  never  returns." 

Could  but  some  voice  have  whispered  to  these  despairing 
souls  the  promises  of  revealed  truth,  how  would  their 
spirits  have  been  comforted!  How  would  their  hopes 
have  kindled  could  they  have  turned  to  the  Book  which 


Lai/  Sermons. 


brings  life  and  immortality  to  light  upon  its  pages.  No 
more  upon  the  tombs  of  their  dead  loved  ones  would 
have  been  traced  such  inscriptions  as  these:  "I  was  not 
and  became;  I  was  and  am  no  more."  "We  all,  whom 
death  has  laid  low,  are  decaying  bones  and  ashes;  nothing 
else,"  but  rather  the  triumphant,  "Blessed  are  the  dead 
who  die  in  the  Lord?"  "O  Death!  where  is  thy  sting? 
O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory?" 

O  the  immeasurable  pricelessness  of  the  book  which 
dispels  the  hopelessness  and  the  despair  of  heathen  dark 
ness  and  unfolds  to  the  soul  visions  like  these: 

"And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth,  for  the 
first  heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away." 
.  .  .  "And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from 
their  eyes;  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death,  neither 
sorrow  nor  crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more  pain; 
for  the  former  things  are  passed  away."  ..."  And 
he  showed  me  a  pure  river  of  water  of  life,  clear  as 
crystal,  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the 
Lamb.  In  the  midst  of  the  street  of  it,  and  on  either 
side  of  the  river,  was  there  the  Tree  of  Life,  which  have 
twelve  manner  of  fruits,  and  yielded  her  fruit  every 
month;  and  the  leaves  of  the  tree  were  for  the  healing 
of  the  nations. 

"And  there  shall  be  no  more  curse;  but  the  throne  of 
God  and  the  Lamb  shall  be  in  it,  and  his  servants  shall 
serve  him.  And  they  shall  see  His  face;  and  His  name 
shall  be  in  their  foreheads. 

"And  there  shall  lie  no  night  there;  and  they  need 
no  candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun;  for  the  Lord  God 
giveth  them  light;  and  they  shall  reign  forever  and  ever." 


IX. 


THE  DIVINE  COMING. 

The  sun  is  the  center  of  light,  of  life  and  beauty  to 
the  solar  system.  Blot  it  from  the  heavens  and  the 
planets  would  go  out  in  darkness,  and  the  swinging 
constellations  tremble. 

And  what  of  the  round  earth  should  the  sun  die? 
The  blackness  of  darkness  and  eternal  death.  No  more 
would  come  the  gentle  and  balmy  breezes  from  the  south, 
bearing  the  breath  of  sweetness  and  delicious  fragrance. 
No  more  the  blossoming  brightness  and  the  beauty  of 
the  flowers,  for  there  would  be  no  living  rays  of  light 
to  paint  their  colors,  no  warmth  to  nurture  their  delicate 
or  spicy  odors.  Nevermore  the  seed-time  and  harvest, 
the  golden  splendors  of  the  dawn  and  the  crimson  glories 
of  the  sunset  hour.  No  more  through  the  deeps  of  air 
would  soar  the  pinion  of  bird.  No  more  through  its 
glad  pathway  of  light  would  flash  the  gay  butterfly, 
like  a  winged  blossom  of  beauty,  nor  would  the  rainbow- 
hoed  wing  of  the  fly  stir  in  the' silence  of  the  ether.  The 
song  of  feathered  singers  would  be  hushed  and  their 
happy  carol  be  heard  no  more  forever. 

The  sun  is  the  source  of  light  and  life.  Darken  it, 
and  through  all  the  great  solar  system  destruction  would 
push  its  mighty  plowshares,  and  there  would  be  heard 
the  crash  of  worlds  and  the  falling  of  spheres.  Through 
all  the  illimitable  vastness  of  the  universe  would  be 
discerned  the  thrill  of  such  dire  calamity,  and  multi 
tudinous  stars  would 

"Wander  darkling  in  eternal  space, 

Rayless  and  pathless,  and  the  icy  earth 

Swing  blind  and  black'ning  in  the  moonless  air." 

The  grand  poise  of  the  heavens  would  be  broken.  With 
what  infinite  skill  has  the  Divine  Creator  held  the  scales 
in  which  He  has  weighed  the  circling  suns  and  planets 
of  this  created  universe!  Not  a  grain  of  sand  too  much 


does  a  planet  hold.  Not  an  unneeded  drop  of  water 
in  all  the  mighty  seas.  In  the  balances  of  Omnipotence 
each  world  is  weighed,  and  each  sphere  adjusted  in 
its  relation  to  all  other  spheres.  Through  all  the  track 
less  and  untrodden  universe  of  God's  creation  this  law 
of  delicate  adjustment  exists.  Eternal  fitness  and  har 
mony  is  the  law  of  eternal  space.  System  within  system; 
millions  of  suns  and  millions  of  circling  worlds,  but 
for  them  all  one  law,  one  Creator,  one  mighty  undis 
covered  center  around  which  they  forever  revolve. 

So  it  is  in  the  spiritual  world.  Take  from  it  the 
"Sun  of  Righteousness"  and  what  spiritual  darkness 
would  result !  Take  from  Christianity  its  divine  Christ, 
and  where,  O  soul,  is  the  center  of  thy  hope,  where  the 
light  of  thine  immortality?  Out  into  the  darkness  of 
eternal  doubt  would  the  spirit  swing — into  the  midnight 
of  utter  hopelessness  and  despair.  For  man  has  sinned. 
He  has  broken  divine  law.  He  has  outraged  justice. 
How,  then,  is  he  to  escape?  If  he  begins  today  to  do 
the  right,  he  does  no  more  than  he  should  have  done 
from  the  beginning.  He  can  by  so  doing  wipe  out  no 
past  transgression,  atone  never  for  the  long,  long  years  of 
violated  law,  and  of  opposition  to  the  divine  require 
ments.  If  we  take  the  life  of  a  human  being  today, 
and  then  henceforth  live  uprightly,  honestly,  justly,  do 
we  thus  pay  for  the  awful  crime  we  have  committed, 
and  can  we  look  forward  through  our  after  good  deeds 
to  stand  acquitted  of  our  guilt?  In  the  day  that  thou 
sinnest  thou  shalt  surely  die,  is  the  decree  of  eternal 
justice.  And  God  is  not  a  man  that  He  should  die. 
Death  is  the  unfailing  penalty  of  sin  unless  there  be 
found  for  the  sinner  a  Redeemer  and  a  Savior. 

The  Bible  is  old.  It  is  the  Book  upon  which  all 
Christendom  leans,  and  upon  its  sure  basis  it  builds  its 
spiritual  hopes.  Its  pages  were  written  before  the  light 
of  Science  dawned.  But  though  not  intended  to  demon 
strate  scientific  truth,  it  made  no  mistakes  in  that 
then  unknown  domain.  The  richness  of  Bible  truth  is 
immeasurable,  and  everywhere  does  it  teach  us  that  "the 
universe  is  God's  name  writ  large."  Ages  of  thought 
and  study  have  given  to  us  the  science  of  geology,  but 
the  germ  of  its  sublime  lessons  the  Bible  gave  us  ages 
ago.  Modern  geology  tells  us  that  the  strata  of  the 
earth  were  produced  by  the  action  of  water,  and  that 
once  over  the  mountains  rolled  the  mighty  billows  of 
the  deep.  And  what  does  this  ancient  book  declare? 
"  Thou  coverest  the  earth  with  the  deep  as  with  a  gar 
ment.  The  waters  stood  above  the  mountains.  At  thy 
rebuke  they  fled;  at  the  voice  of  thy  thunder  they  hasted 
away.  The  mountains  ascend,  the  valleys  descend  into 
the  place  thou  hast  founded  for  them." 

And  still  in  that  dim  old  past,  when  men  of  learning 
knew  nothing  of  the  story  which  geology  traces  upon 
the  rocks,  is  the  brief  and  comprehensive  utterance: 
"In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heavens  and  the  earth, 
and  the  earth  was  without  form  and  void,  and  darkness 
was  upon  the  face  of  the  deep."  Afterward  came  the 
work  of  molding,  shaping  and  stratifying  it  through  the 
long  formative  ages  when  it  was  being  made  ready  for 
habitation. 

And  how  blindly  did  ancient  heathen  philosophers 
search  for  reasons  by  which  to  account  for  the  earth 
being  upheld  in  its  place.  Gigantic  elephants,  serpents 
and  turtles  were  devised  by  their  imagination  as  the 
foundations  upon  which  our  earthly  sphere  rested;  yet 
plainly  did  Job  declare  that  "God  stretcheth  out  the 
north  over  the  empty  place,  and  hangeth  the  earth  upon 
nothing." 

If,  then,  even  as  regards  material  things,  the  teachings 
of  the  Bible  are  beyond  question,  and  far,  far  wiser 
than  the  generation  in  which  they  were  written,  shall 
we  accept  its  religious  teachings  but  in  part,  because, 
forsooth,  our  finite  minds  cannot  grasp  all  their  mys 
teries?  Shall  we  blot  out  the  one  great  shining  light 


240 


"What  Constitutes  a  State?" 


that  gilds  its  pages  and  that  imparts  hope  and  salvation 
to  the  race?  Love,  infinite  love  is  the  keynote  to  the 
New  Testament.  Christianity  is  of  itself  a  kind  of 
miracle,  as  it  appears  in  its  pages,  in  that  it  reveals  to 
us  a  perfect  character — a  divine,  sinless  man.  With  the 
testimony  of  the  ages  to  sustain  it,  and  the  influence  of 
His  life  upon  believers  of  all  succeeding  generations,  shall 
we  decline  to  accept  the  gospel  teachings  concerning 
Him? 

From  the  beginning  of  Time  prophecy  pointed  to 
Christ's  coming.  His  is  the  central  figure  of  all  revealed 
truth.  He  is  "The  Lamb  of  God  who  taketh  away  the 
sins  of  the  world."  As  portrayed  in  the  New  Testament, 
His  character  was  one  of  innocence  without  weakness, 
a  superhuman  manhood,  sublime  in  its  dignity,  yet  devoid 
of  vanity;  poor  and  lowly,  yet  filled  with  a  moral 
grandeur  before  which  the  lordly  and  self-righteous 
Pharisee  shrank  in  self-conscious  abasement. 

Human  repentance  begins  with  sorrow  for  sin,  but 
while  the  righteousness  and  goodness  of  Christ's  charac 
ter  are  above  question,  never  do  we  know  of  His  ex 
pressing  sorrow  for  a  word  spoken  or  an  act  performed. 
Nowhere  is  there  an  admission  of  human  fallibility  or 
wrong,  but  when  accused  He  boldly  responds:  "Which 
of  you  convinces  me  of  sin?" 

Look  at  Him  again,  "despised  and  rejected  of  men;" 
homeless,  with  not  where  to  lay  His  head,  with  calm  and 
dignified  utterance  He  confronts  the  great  and  powerful 
with  the  words:  "I  came  forth  from  the  Father."  "Ye 
are  from  beneath,  I  am  from  above,"  and  then  with  the 
wisdom  of  the  Nation  before  Him,  "Behold  a  greater 
than  Solomon  is  here."  "I  am  the  light  of  the  world — 
the  way,  the  truth  and  the  life.  No  man  cometh  unto 
the  Father  but  by  me."  \Ve  read  these  sayings  of  His, 
but  in  our  hearts  do  we  question  His  right  to  make 
these  declarations — does  not  rather  His  whole  life  justify 
such  utterances? 

O  "man  of  sorrows  acquainted  with  grief!"  O  "God 
made  manifest  in  the  flesh!"  O  Redeemer,  saying 
unto  us,  "Come  unto  me  all  ye  who  are  weary  and  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest."  Shall  we  crucify  Thee 
afresh,  and  trample  upon  the  blood  of  the  cross?  Out 
of  the  poverty  of  our  own  good  works  shall  we  hope 
for  redemption,  while  "God  so  loved  the  world  that 
He  gave  His  only  begotten  son  that  whosover  believeth 
in  Him  shall  receive  everlasting  life?" 


X. 
"WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE?" 

It  is  not  bigness  alone  that  makes  people  great;  not 
vast  extent  of  territory;  richness  of  soil;  wealth  of 
climate;  unlimited  resources;  varied  productions;  abund 
ance  of  gold  and  silver;  populous  cities;  advanced  cul 
ture  and  learning;  extensive  navies  and  mighty  standing 
armies.  A  nation  may  have  all  these,  with  a  glory  as 
great  as  that  of  ancient  Babylon;  a  splendor  like  that 
of  Greece  in  her  palmiest  days;  with  power  and  suprem 
acy  that  might  overshadow  even  that  of  imperial 
Rome,  and  yet  not  be,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  term, 
truly  great. 

The  greatest  and  grandest  events  of  the  world's  history 
occurred  in  the  little  nation  occupying  a  strip  of 
territory  but  145  miles  in  length  and  with  lint  an  average 
breadth  of  forty-five  miles.  The  small  land  of  Palestine, 
whose  shores  are  washed  upon  the  west  by  the  waters 
of  the  Mediterranean,  and  whose  eastern  borders  are  the 
valley  of  the  Jordan,  and  which  on  the  north  is  guarded 
by  the  mountains  of  Lebanon  and  at  whose  foot  stretches 
out  the  desert  of  Sinai,  is  the  parent  of  the  hopes  of  the 
race.  Within  its  limits  the  most  profound  truths  have 


been  enunciated;  the  grandest  laws  promulgated,  and 
the  sublimest  teachings,  known  to  men  were  set  forth. 
In  comparison  with  what  has  transpired  among  that 
people,  all  the  greatness  and  grandeur  of  human  achieve 
ments  elsewhere  dwindle  into  insignificance.  Modern 
civilization  has  been  made  possible  only  through  Jewish 
inspiration.  The  Ten  Commandments  are  the  basis  of 
all  civilized  law.  In  them  are  found  the  elements  of 
all  justice  and  mercy,  and  by  them  we  regulate  law 
and  the  relations  of  men  to  men;  justice  determines 
what  is  equitable  and  right.  How  sublime,  yet  simple, 
the  enunciation:  "Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thy  heart,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 

And  what  was  it  that  constituted  the  greatness  of  this 
Jewish  people  and  that  enabled  them  to  make  laws  wise 
enough  for  all  ages?  What  was  it  that  set  their  poets 
and  singers  far  above  those  of  all  preceding  and  all  com 
ing  centuries?  That  lifted  them  above  heathen  nations 
and  made  of  them  a  peculiar  people  in  whose  debt 
mankind  will  forever  remain?  It  is  simply  that  they 
were  the  exponents  of  undying  truths,  truths  upon  which 
all  nations  must  build  or  perish. 

How  rich  in  prosperity  were  they  when  they  adhered 
to  those  truths !  How  fell  their  enemies  before  them ! 
How  mighty  their  throne  and  their  conquest!  How 
immortal  their  poets  and  lawgivers!  Just  so  long  as 
truth  triumphed  they  were  invincible.  As  the  cloud  fleetli 
before  the  wind,  so  fled  their  foes  before  the  inarch  of 
their  armies.  "And  the  fear  of  the  people  was  upon  the 
nations  round  about." 

And  is  not  truth  always  the  same  in  its  results?  If 
adherence  to  the  immutable  principles  of  divine  law 
made  Israel  great,  will  it  not  also  make  great  the  nations 
of  today?  Can  a  nation  any  more  than  the  individual 
violate  divine  law  and  yet  prosper?  We  talk  about  the 
great  and  grand  future  of  this  free  republic,  yet  what 
right  have  we  to  expect  that  future  if  we  do  not  regard 
the  right? 

A  nation  is  made  up  of  individuals,  and  so  it  is  with 
the  individual  that  reformation  must  begin.  It  is  for 
the  individual  to  set  his  face  unchangingly  against  the 
wrong,  to  live  a  life  that  shall  be  a  constant  rebuke 
to  the  evildoer.  We  want  men  of  whom  it  can  be  said, 
"I  believe  in  that  man,  because  his  everyday  life  is  in 
accordance  with  what  he  preaches."  We  need  men  who 
are  incorruptible  and  unpurchasable;  who  set  the  right 
above  everything;  who  never  parley;  never  excuse  evil- 
doing  or  indulge  in  specious  sophistry. 

It  is  the  man  who  adheres  to  the  right  for  right's 
sake  that  makes  his  influence  felt— who  has  the  spirit 
of  martyrdom  for  the  truth.  We  do  not  want  to  sit 
down  and  deplore  the  wrong  and  yet  not  lift  a  hand 
to  rectify  it.  We  cannot  convert  others  until  we  our 
selves  are  right.  Let  the  mote  in  our  brother's  eye  alone 
until  we  have  disposed  of  the  beam  in  our  own  eye,  and 
when  we  have  done  that,  then  we  may  lift  up  strong 
hands  and  clean  in  the  work  which  we  would  do  for 
tiiose  about  us. 

What  a  power  was  Moses  among  his  people!  Before 
him  the  idolatrous  tribes  trembled.  His  word  was  law, 
which  they  dare  not  disobey  or  ignore.  This  man,  beloved 
of  God,  was  pre-eminently  the  statesman  of  the  ages, 
and  the  secret  of  his  strength  and  his  wisdom  lay  in  his 
goodness. 

All  the  lessons  of  history  teach  the  same  truth — 
(joodness  is  strength.  It  also  assures  the  march  of 
progress  along  one  grand  highway.  There  are  no  devious 
byways  of  expediency  to  be  pursued,  no  Sloughs  of 
Despond  to  engulf  the  feet,  for  straight  on  does  the 
right  lead  to  the  uplands  of  prosperity  and  happiness. 

We  hear  a  great  deal  about  the  evils  of  the  present 

.'     age;  the  greed   for  wealth;   the  purchase  of  power;  the 

laxity  of  principles;  the  desecration  of  the  Sabbath  and 

all   the  multitudinous   wrongs   which   characterize   us   as 


241 


Lay  Sermons. 


a  people.  They  arc  to  be  most  deeply  deplored,  and 
most  earnestly  should  we  seek  a  remedy  for  them.  But 
let  every  one  of  us  who  cries  out  against  them  look  first 
into  his  own  life  and  see  if  it  is  right — see  if  there  is 
nothing  to  be  found  requiring  cleansing. 

Philanthropy  is  grand  and  noble  and  high,  but  grander 
is  it  to  first  set  ourselves  right,  to  destroy  within 
ourselves  all  that  which  offends  goodness,  and  make 
ourselves  what  we  would  have  the  world  be. 

There  is  no  limit  to  the  grandeur  which  this  American 
republic  may  attain  if  it  become  in  the  truest  sense 
of  the  term  a  Christian  republic;  if  we  take  the  religion 
of  our  churches  into  our  everyday  life,  and  carry  its 
devotion  and  live  its  professions  through  the  week.  Let 
Americans  embody  the  teachings  and  the  precepts  of 
the  noble  men  who  are  the  "beacon  lights  of  history  "- 
the  grand,  illustrious  and  heroic  men  whose  names  and 
whose  lives  have  lent  a  fadeless  luster  to  that  little 
country  whose  shores  are  washed  by  the  Mediterranean 
and  the  Jordan,  and  the  splendor  of  national  power  and 
strength  and  glory  shall  shine  as  effulgent!?  in  these 
later  days  of  the  world  as  they  did  in  its  dawn.  Let  us 
be  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term  a  Christian  people, 
and  we  shall  wax  stronger  and  stronger,  and  with  us 
shall  culminate  the  glory  of  the  race.  Peace  and  progress 
and  safety  will  be  in  all  our  gates. 


XI. 
"NEARER,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEE!" 

How  swiftly  the  days  and  weeks  pass!  Time  never 
rests.  We  are  all  of  us  a  week  nearer  Life's  ending 
than  we  were  last  Sunday.  A  week  nearer  to  our  Father's 
House.  And  with  this  remembrance  should  come  home 
to  us  the  inquiry:  Are  we  in  thought,  in  devotion  to 
His  work,  in  love  to  Him  and  His  cause,  nearer  to  our 
Father  than  we  were  then?  Has  this  past  week  been 
a  week  of  service?  Have  we  opened  the  doors  of  our 
hearts  to  our  King  and  bid  Him  enter?  Have  we  sought 
to  correct  any  of  the  faults  of  which  we  are  conscious? 
Have  we  striven  to  live  upon  a  higher  plane?  Have  we 
kept  in  view  the  mountain  peaks  of  faith  and  of  hope, 
or  have  we  lived  only  upon  the  dead  levels  of  worldly 
purpose? 

We  believe  in  an  ever-present  Father.  In  a  God  who 
walks  beside  us  in  His  Providence  and  abiding  love;  in 
a  God  whose  hand  is  always  outstretched  to  lead  us,  and 
whose  spirit— the  blessed  Comforter— is  ever  ready  to 
take  up  His  abode  with  us. 

People  say  sometimes,  "Oh,  God  is  so  great  and  so 
infinite  that  I  never  can  think  of  Him  as  taking  note 
of  the  little  things  of  this  life.  He  is  so  high  above 
us  that  I  do  not  believe  that  he  ever  condescends  to 
trouble  Himself  about  the  small  affairs  of  this  world." 

But  the  very  vastness  and  infinitude  of  God's  greatness 
is  manifested  not  alone  in  His  care  of  suns  and  planets 
ana  rolling  spheres,  but  in  the  fact  that  while  "He 
holdeth  the  waters  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,"  directs 
the  course  of  every  star  as  it  circles  through  boundless 
space,  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  His 
notice,  and  every  hair  upon  the  heads  of  earth's  uncounted 
millions  are  ail  numbered.  There  never  fell  a  tear  of 
human  sorrow  that  His  pitying  eye  did  not  behold  it; 
there  was  never  a  human  heart  rent  with  grief  with 
which  the  Divine  heart  did  not  throb  in  sympathy.  There 
was  never  an  earnest  prayer  for  help  uttered  but  what 
His  ear  heard  and  His  hand  was  outstretched  to  succor. 
"Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth 
those  that  fear  Him." 

Down  through  the  long  centuries,  breaking  the  awful 
silence  of  doubt  and  despair,  comes  the  voice  of  our  I 


Maker,  "The  Lord  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,  and 
scourgeth  every  son  and  daughter  whom  He  receiveth." 
O  blessed  baptism  of  sorrow;  through  it  we  are  purified 
and  cleansed  and  brought  into  more  intimate  and  tender 
relations  with  God.  If  we  are  weak  we  "have  not  an 
high  priest  who  is  not  touched  with  the  feelings  of  our 
infirmities,  but  one  who  was  in  all  points  tempted  like 
as  we  are,  yet  without  sin." 

Then,  O  child  of  God!  what  courage  should  we  have 
in  our  work,  what  joy,  what  hope!  The  love  of  God 
which  we  share  we  should  seek  to  impart  a  knowledge 
of  to  others.  In  every  act  of  our  lives  should  we  live 
Christ  and  embody  His  spirit.  It  is  the  little  acts  that 
breathe  of  His  love,  that  proclaim  us  as  His  children. 
They  are  the  leaven  which  leavens  the  whole  lump. 

If  we  but  cherish  this  divine  love  in  our  hearts  for 
those  about  us  it  will  break  down  the  barriers  of  silence 
between  our  lives  and  other  lives.  It  will  fill  our  hearts 
with  sympathy  such  as  will  be  strong  to  discern  the 
needs  of  others,  and  it  will  make  our  hands  swift  to  help 
where  help  is  needed. 

The  noblest  life  that  was  ever  lived  was  that  of  our 
Divine  Master,  but  it  was  a  life  of  constant  work  and 
sacrifice.  Let  us  emulate  that  life,  making  our  lives 
lives  of  service,  then  as  each  week  brings  us  nearer  our 
Father's  House,  which  is  to  be  our  home,  we  shall  march 
on  with  our  hands  full  of  gathered  sheaves. 

"Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least 
of  these,  my  brethren,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

How  much  force  there  is  in  this  inasmuch.  It  means 
God's  acceptance  of  us;  it  implies  satisfaction  with  us, 
and  pardon,  and  that  infinite  delight  in  us  which  will 
bring  us  into  the  household  of  the  Infinite  Father — into 
one  of  the  "Many  Mansions." 

Look  at  it  closely  and  you  will  discover  that  there  is 
nothing  in  God's  great  universe  so  divine,  so  supreme 
as  love,  and  that  the  more  of  love  there  is  in  us  the  more 
are  we  like  the  Infinite. 

Love  is  grander  than  intellect,  stronger  than  strength 
and  as  enduring  as  the  eternal  years. 


XII. 
THE  ETERNAL  MORNING. 

We  stand  under  the  blue  skies  in  the  soft,  warm 
splendor  of  the  sunset.  Beyond  us  is  the  glorious 
uplift  of  mountains,  voiceful  of  Omnipotent  Power. 
Around  us  are  the  leaf-crowned  trees;  the  brightness 
and  fragrance  of  blossoming  plants.  How  wide  and  far 
stretch  the  billowy  plains.  With  what  splendors  do  they 
gleam  in  the  sunset  lights,  and  how  radiant  grow  the 
flaming  mountain  tops  above  the  whiteness  of  their  crests 
of  snow! 

But  slowly  the  sun  sinks  from  sight  and  all  this  mani 
fold  beauty*  fades  into  darkness.  Where  light  shone  but 
a  short  space  since  is  now  shadow  and  deepening  night, 
and  later  the  cold,  gray  fog  creeps  in,  leaving  to  the 
sight  but  a  dead,  dark  blank,  as  if  the  world  had  been 
wiped  out,  the  mountains  swept  from  their  foundations, 
and  the  beauty  of  flower  and  tree  had  perished.  But, 
though  our  eyes  cannot  longer  behold  them,  we  know 
that,  abiding  as  Time,  they  are  still  there;  that  above 
the  clouds,  touching  the  stars,  are  lifted  yet  the  eternal 
fronts  of  the  hills,  and  when  at  dawn  the  morning  stars 
shall  sing  together,  the  darkness  and  the  cloud  will 
vanish,  and  again  our  eyes  shall  behold  them  bathed  in 
the  effulgence  of  the  sunrise,  and  that  out  from  the 
shadow  and  dimness  of  night  will  again  appear,  more 
fragrant  for  the  dew,  more  glorious  for  the  night  of 
rest,  the  tender  flower  and  the  leaf-crowned  tree. 


242 


What  of  the  Boy? 


So  it  is  with  man  when  the  night  of  death  conies.  The 
beloved  ones  slip  from  our  sight,  and  we  lay  their  bodies 
away  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the"  grave.  We 
stand  there  while  the  rain  of  sorrow  sweeps  over  us; 
while  our  hearts  are  darkened  by  our  night  of  woe,  and 
lay  them  away,  "ashes  to  ashes  and  dust  unto  dust." 
But  above  the  clouds  of  grief  the  stars  of  hope  are 
sinning,  and  upon  the  freed  spirit  breaks  the  dawn  of 
immortality.  A  new  day  has  come,  a  new  sun  has  arisen, 
even  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  whose  brightness  shall 
soon  dissolve  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  and  that  which 
was  "sown  in  corruption  shall  be  raised  in  incorruption, 
and  death  shall  be  swallowed  up  in  life." 

"I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,"  so  "O  Death! 
where  is  thy  sting?  O  Grave!  where  is  thy  victory?" 
The  night  of  death  is  but  for  a  little  space,  and  after  it 
cometh  the  morning.  And  what  a  morning! 

Have  you  not  seen  the  mountains  sometimes 'at  sunrise 
wrapped  in  luminous  mists  of  pearly  whiteness,  glowing 
and  gleaming  as  if  the  beams  of  ten  thousand  suns  had 
been  melted  into  a  translucent  veil  which  floated  round 
them,  while  they  seemed  to  be  lifted  up  to  vaster  heights 
and  more  abounding  greatness?  Thus,  after  the  night 
of  Time  breaks  upon  the  redeemed,  the  glory  of  eternal 
gladness.  Oh,  the  luminous  brightness  of  eternal  day! 
Oh,  the  transcendent  heights  of  redeeming  grace!  O'h, 
the  waking  from  the  shadows  of  earth— from  night  to  the 
morning  of  eternity!  Friends  who  are  standing  with 
the  sunset  lights  of  time  about  you,  when  the  darkness 
of  earth  envelops  you,  we  shall  know  that  ye  are  no 
more  lost  than  are  the  mountains  that  fade  from  our 
sight  in  the  deepening  twilight;  than  are  the  trees,  and 
the  sweet  and  tender  blossoms  that  are  buried  in  the 
night.  Ye  have  not  slipped  from  your  places  in  God's 
great  universe.  After  the  night  sha'll  come  the  morning, 
and  then  our  eyes  shall  behold  the  triumphs  of  redeeming 
love.  Then  with  the  new  morning  shall  come  the  eternal 
day.  Xo  more  night.  Xo  more  silence  with  folded  hands 
upon  our  pulseless  breasts.  We  shall  wake  with  the  dew 
of  divine  grace  upon  our  souls  and  the  fragrance  of 
undying  love  upon  our  spirits.  Up  to  vaster  heights 
shall  we  be  lifted,  to  the  melody  of  new  spheres,  and  the 
purer  atmosphere  of  diviner  knowledge.  Life,  illimitable 
life,  will  break  upon  us  like  the  sunrise  splendor  upon 
the  mountain  tops.  The  vast  plains  of  eternal  being 
shall  unfold  before  our  vision  and  the  blossoms  of  eternal 
truth  shall  make  them  fragrant  and  beautiful  for  our 
immortal  feet.  Then  indeed  shall  we  be  satisfied. 

"Strange  words  for  earth!    Through  all  we  dream  and  do 

We  go  down  to  the  grave  with  hope  denied ! 
Karth  has  her  triumphs  and  her  crowns,  but  who 
Was  ever  satisfied? 

"There  are  few  sweet  fountains  in  the  wilderness, 

And  flowers  by  the  loneliest  wayside, 
And  joys  come  often,  yet  the  happiest 
Are  never  satisfied. 

"What  voice  the  yearning  first  interpreted? 

What  soundless,  shoreless  ocean  spreading  wide 
Rose  clear  and  calm  before  his  sight  who  said 
'I  shall  be  satisfied.' 

"Before  the  thought  our  restlessness  is  stilled, 

As  once  again  the  veil  is  drawn  aside — 
Oh,  land  where  every  void  earth  leaves  is  filled 
And  all  are  satisfied. 

"A  heaven  worth  winning!    Tho'  that  land  is  fair, 

With  beauty  to  our  sight  and  thought  denied, 
One  thought  surpasses  all  the  visions — 
There  I  shall  be  satisfied. 


"There  all  the  shadows  past— all  secrets  plain, 

If  not  in  vain  I  shall  have  lived  and  died, 
If  loss  at  last  may  turn  to  bitter  gain, 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

"If  I  may  look  upon  the  Face,  whose  calm 

Within  the  glory  dims  all  else  beside, 
It  were  enough  without  the  crown  and  palm 
I  shall  be  satisfied. 

"If  I  may  drink  and  never  thirst  again, 

And  in  that  rest  forevermore  abide; 
If  in  Thy  likeness  I  awake— Oh,  then 
I  shall  be  satisfied." 


XIII. 
WHAT  OF  THE  BOY? 

We  will  take  as  our  text  today  the  following:  "The 
boy  is  the  father  of  the  man." 

You  may  look  your  Bibles  all  through  and  you  will 
not  find  it,  but  you  cannot  turn  over  a  single  page  of 
human  experience  where  you  will  not  see  it  written. 
Everywhere  in  the  history  of  the  human  race  do  we 
discover  that  it  has  held  triie,  and  that  it  is  a  fact  beyond 
all  question  or  refutation. 

"The  boy  is  the  father  of  the  man." 

This  proposition  being  accepted,  the  question  naturally 
arises,  what  shall  we  do  with  the  boy? 

The  civilization  of  the  Xineteenth  Century  is  beginning 
to  awake  to  the  importance  of  this  question.  Public 
intelligence,  thoughtful  philanthropy  and  benevolent 
Christianity  have  all  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  that  the 
greatest  amount  of  good  is  accomplished  for  the  race  in 
working  for  the  rising  generation. 

That  trite  and  homely  old  adage,  "An  ounce  of  pre 
vention  is  worth  a  pound  of  cure,"  is  coming  home  to 
the  world  with  tremendous  meaning.  It  is  full  of  untold 
wisdom,  and  indirectly  it  answers  the  problem,  "What 
shall  we  do  with  the  boy?" 

"As  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  is  inclined."  Make  a 
just  estimate  of  the  character  of  the  boys  in  any  com 
munity  today,  and  you  can  easily  determine  what  the 
character  of  that  community  will  be  when  they  shall 
have  grown  to  manhood,  and  the  control  of  its  affairs 
is  placed  in  their  hands.  Let  the  boys  grow  up  without 
restraint,  without  the  influence  of  refinement  and  culture; 
without  education;  with  no  law  of  action  but  the  grati 
fication  of  their  own  desires,  no  pursuit  but  that  of 
selfish  pleasure,  and  where  would  be  the  development 
of  their  manhood,  where  their  respect  for  law  and  the 
rights  of  others? 

It  is  time  that  the  Church  as  an  organization,  and  the 
Christian  as  an  individual,  began  to  ponder  the  question 
more  seriously:  What  shall  we  do  with  the  boy? 

It  is  not  so  much  the  boy  who  has  a  Christian  home 
where  he  is  carefully  trained  and  educated,  and  made 
acquainted  with  his  duties  and  obligations  to  his  Creator 
and  his  fellow-men,  to  whom  the  attention  of  the  church 
and  the  individual  needs  to  be  given,  as  to  the  poor 
little  homeless  waifs  and  outcasts  that  abound  in  every 
city — the  boys  whose  education  is  confined  to  the  streets, 
to  the  low  saloons  and  grog-shop;  who  are  familiar  early 
with  intemperance  and  sin;  with  theft  and  falsehood, 
and  the  infamy  of  immorality;  whose  heads  have  never 
felt  the  caressing  touch  of  a  loving  mother's  hand,  and 
whose  lips  have  never  been  taught  to  say  "Our  Father"— 
the  poor  little  wandering  Arabs  of  our  streets,  who  are 
kicked  here  and  there,  and  whose  ears  are  familiar  with 
curses;  the  boys  whose  parents  are  low  and  ignorant 
and  degraded,  who  give  them  no  teachings  but  those 


243 


Lay  Sermons. 


of  sin,  and  whose  example,  if  followed,  would  lead  their 
children  to  our  inebriate  asylums,  our  houses  of  correc 
tion,  and  to  our  jails  and  State  prisons.  Have  our 
churches  nothing  to  do  with  these?  Does  the  individual 
Christian  owe  them  no  debt  of  obligation? 

Let  the  churches  of  Los  Angeles  as  a  whole,  and  every 
single  individual  member  of  them,  ask  themselves  this 
question:  Are  we  doing  our  whole  duty  when  we  are 
making  liberal  contributions  to  our  foreign  missionary 
societies,  and  are  giving  nothing  for  the  little,  untaught 
souls  in  our  midst  ? 

Take,  for  instance,  the  two  or  three  hundred  newsboys 
in  this  community,  many  of  them  without  homes,  oft- 
times  going  hungry  and  poorly  clad;  finding  their 
associates  upon  the  street,  sometimes  among  men  hardened 
in  sin;  sleeping  ofttimes  in  open  hallways,  or  in  empty 
boxes  under  the  pavements,  or  in  back  yards,  with  only 
the  sky  and  stars  above  their  heads— bright  boys;  quick 
to  learn;  easily  won  by  kindness,  but  readily  yielding 
to  the  influences  around  them;  boys  who  with  proper 
training  would  become  some  of  the  noblest  men  of  the 
future,  but  who,  if  left  to  themselves,  will  be  found 
years  hence  among  the  criminals  in  our  penitentiaries 
and  State  prisons,  and  then  answer  to  your  own  con 
science  where  your  duty  lies,  and  tell  us,  what  shall  we 
do  with  the  boy? 

The  church  is  rich  enough  to  support  all  its  mis 
sionaries  in  foreign  fields,  and  to  care  for  all  who  need 
its  help  among  the  rising  generation  in  our  own  land, 
but  if  it  is  ready  to  care  for  but  one,  which  class 
shall  it  be? 

True  Christian  benevolence  implies  sacrifice.  When 
we  give  that  which  we  do  not  miss  there  is  no  real 
benevolence  in  it.  We  are  simply  parting  with  what  is 
not  necessary  to  us.  Have  we  ever  solved  the  richness 
of  the  widow's  mite?  "For  she  of  her  penury  hath 
cast  in  all  her  living."  How  many  of  us  have  ever 
approached  to  such  giving?  When  our  so-called  benevo 
lence  brings  with  it  some  self-denial,  some  spirit  of 
self-sacrifice,  then  shall  we  really  begin  to  give  in  the 
right  spirit,  and  then  will  there  be  some  hope  of  the 
world's  evangelization.  Then  shall  we  begin  to  look 
about  us  and  see  the  work  that  is  to  be  done  in  our 
Lord's  vineyard,  and  the  little  waifs  of  our  streets  will 
be  gathered  in  and  trained  for  good  citizenship  and 
usefulness  in  all  the  different  walks  of  life.  Our 
Newsboys'  Home  will  not  have  to  be  abandoned  because 
there  are  no  funds  for  its  support,  while  the  comfortable 
Christians  of  our  churches  sit  about  their  own  firesides 
enjoying  the  luxuries  of  life  and  all  its  ease  and  pleasures, 
unmindful  of  the  boys  that  are  homeless  and  whose  feet 
are  tending  downward  in  the  paths  of  temptation  and  sin. 

Can  we  shut  our  eyes  to  their  needs  and  let  the  doors 
of  their  home  be  closed,  and  go  to  church  with  sancti 
monious  faces  and  thank  God  for  all  the  privileges  of 
a  Christian  land,  and  believe  we  have  done  our  whole 
duty,  and  dwell  at  peace  with  our  own  consciences? 

What  humanity  needs,  what  the  church  needs,  is  a 
larger  spirit  of  self-denial;  a  more  open-eyed  benevo 
lence;  hearts  more  Christ-like — large  enough  and  warm 
enough  to  take  in  the  needs  of  the  whole  world.  When 
we  have  that,  then  shall  we  answer  as  we  should  the 
question  that  now  confronts  us:  What  shall  we  do  with 
the  boy? 


XIV. 
THE  MYSTERIOUS  SEPULCHER. 

"And  He  buried  him  in  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab, 
over  against  Bethpeor;  but  no  man  knoweth  of  his 
sepulcher  unto  this  day." 

We  all  admire  whatever  is  grand  and  beautiful  in 
Xature.  The  stupenduous  vastness  of  great  mountain 


ranges  excites  our  wonder.  The  broad  and  illimitable 
sea,  with  its  mighty  billows  beating  against  the  land, 
brings  to  us  a  sense  of  hidden  power.  How  are  our 
souls  moved,  too,  by  the  beauty  of  field  and  meadow 
when  clothed  in  greenness  and  starred  with  many  blos 
soms,  and  how  reverently  do  we  lift  our  eyes  when  night 
comes,  and  the  sun,  retiring  from  his  place  in  the  heavens, 
all  the  grandeur  of  shining  planets  and  of  circling  suns 
is  revealed;  and  how,  then,  are  we  tempted,  like  the 
psalmist,  to  exclaim,  "When  I  consider  the  heavens, 
which  are  the  work  of  Thy  fingers,  the  moon  and  stars, 
which  Thou  hast  ordained,  what  is  man  that  Thou  art 
mindful  of  him?" 

The  psalmist  must  have  been  a  close  student  of  Xature. 
When  lie  kept  his  father's  sheep,  his  heart  went  out  to 
Nature  as  to  a  mother.  It  was  then  that  he  learned 
her  secrets  and  her  wisdom.  She  was  to  him  like  a 
well  of  living  water,  from  which  he  drank  deep  and 
continuously.  He  slept  upon  her  breast  in  times  of 
danger  and  amid  her  serrated  rocks  and  riverless  deserts 
she  still  spoke  to  him  of  the  God  in  whom  he  trusted. 
The  grandest  of  poets,  he  penned  the  psalmody  for  all 
the  ages,  but  how  many  of  its  most  delightful  strains 
did  Nature  inspire?  Speaking  of  the  good  man,  he 
bursts  forth  triumphantly,  "And  he  shall  be  like  a 
tree  planted  by  the  river  of  water,  that  bringeth  forth 
his  fruit  in  his  season;  his  leaf  also  shall  not  wither, 
and  whatsoever  he  doeth  shall  prosper."  He  was  a  great 
man — this  warrior  king — and  Nature  was  one  of  his 
wisest  teachers. 

Surveying  this  wide  realm  of  Nature,  it  is  but  natural 
that  we  be  inspired  with  a  sense  of  insignificance.  These 
starry  skies;  these  worlds  innumerable;  this  boundless 
planet,  with  its  mighty  seas  and  majestic  mountains; 
the  vastness  of  its  continents  and  its  innumerable  islands 
are  suggestive  of  the  immensity  of  being,  and  again  we 
exclaim,  "What  is  man  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him?" 

But  we  do  not  hesitate  to  assert  that  a  good  man  is 
the  crowning  glory  of  all  the  created  universe  of  God. 
There  is  nothing  else  that  equals  him  in  grandeur,  and 
nothing  which,  in  the  divine  estimation,  exceeds  him  in 
value. 

As  a  representative  of  the  noblest  Christian  manhood, 
let  us  take  that  inspired  prophet,  the  determined  liberator 
and  heroic  leader  of  the  Jewish  people,  Moses,  the  son 
of  a  Hebrew  bondswoman. 

Driven  from  his  place  of  power  and  glory  in  Egypt, 
he  retires  to  the  desert  of  Midian  and  becomes  a  humble 
shepherd — a  keeper  of  flocks.  Surrounded  by  barren 
sands,  by  dreary  and  desolate  mountain  ranges  and  vast 
pyramid-like  peaks,  red  and  glowing,  as  if  touched  by 
fire,  he  gives  himself  to  meditation.  For  forty  years 
he  communed  with  Nature  and  with  God  in  this  lonely 
wilderness.  All  the  learning  and  the  lore  of  Egypt  are 
his.  He  has  been  the  companion  of  priests  and  of 
kings.  But  from  his  mother,  the  humble  daughter  of 
Levi,  he  received  that  which  he  holds  higher  than  all 
things  else — the  knowledge  of  the  one  true  and  living 
God.  And  this  lonely  desert  solitude  is  to  Moses  the 
temple  of  the  living  God.  It  is  here  that  he  worships 
Him  and  studies  His  purposes. 

"And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen 
On  the  deathless  page  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men" 


amid  the  loneliness  of  this  Midian  desert,  for  it  was 
here,  it  is  supposed,  that  he  wrote  the  book  of  Genesis, 
with  its  sublime  history  of  creation  and  of  patriarchal  life. 
Ah,  what  a  story  is  that  of  his  after  life,  from  the 
time  that  he  appeared  before  the  haughty  Egyptian  King 


244 


Penitent  Peter. 


and  demanded  the  release  of  his  people,  till  with 
dying  eyes,  from  the  summit  of  Pisgah,  lie  surveyed 
the  Promised  Land.  Is  there  anything  upon  the  earth 
or  amid  the  stars  that  so  stirs  our  souls  as  does  the 
faithful  story  of  this  man's  life?  Has  Nature  anywhere 
a  voice  like  this  life— so  resonant  with  meekness;  so 
tender  with  pity;  so  accented  with  mercy;  so  strong  with 
faith;  so  fearless  with  justice  and  so  eloquent  with 
hope?  Swing,  ()  ye  stars!  on  your  mighty  courses; 
lift  up  your  heads  into  the  very  deeps  of  the  skies,  () 
ye  everlasting  mountains !  break  with  your  resounding 
billows  upon  all  earthly  shores,  C)  mighty  sea !  spread 
out  wide  as  the  vast  continents,  O  bending  skies !  Yet 
ye  all  are  nothing,  nothing  in  God's  sight  in  comparison 
with  one  of  His  redeemed.  It  was  not  for  vou,  O 
earth!  swinging  in  the  boundless  ether;  it  was  not  for 
you,  O  ever-shining  suns  and  circling  planets  or  sweep 
ing  comets!  not  for  you,  O  star-built  constellations  in 
the  infinitude  of  space,  that  Christ  died.  But  it  was 
for  Man — the  child  of  yesterday,  today  and  tomorrow. 
It  was  for  him,  because  his  soul  was  priceless;  because 
for  him  heaven  waits  and  the  thrones  of  glory  are 
prepared.  Take  all  the  suns  and  all  the  planetary 
spheres  of  God's  great  universe  and  put  in  the  scale 
beside  them  a  human  soul  and  its  worth  would  outweigh 
them  all.  Suns  may  go  out  in  darkness  and  stars  may 
wander  from  their  places,  and  Time  may  throw  the 
pall  of  death  over  them  all,  but  radiant  with  immortality, 
rejoicing  forever  in  God's  eternity  of  gladness,  the 
redeemed  soul  lives  on  forever  more.  Oh,  eloquent  of 
God's  love  and  of  His  tender  remembrance  is  the  fact 
that  God's  own  hand  prepared  for  this  faithful  follower 
his  final  earthly  resting-place. 

And  with  what  joyful  visions  of  the  future  of  his 
people  did  Moses  make  ready  for  that  secret  burial. 
What  voice  of  triumph  and  exultation  in  his  final  song: 
"Who  is  like  unto  thee,  O  people  saved  by  Jehovah, 
the  shield  of  thy  help  and  the  sword  of  thy  excellency?" 
"The  eternal  God  is  thy  refuge,  and  underneath  are 
the  everlasting  arms."  And  with  those  "everlasting  arms 
underneath"  him,  Moses,  the  prophet  and  leader  of 
Israel,  ascended  the  lonely  hill.  To  the  far  heights  of 
Pisgah  he  climbed,  and  beside  him  God  stood.  And 
there  He  showed  him  all  the  Land  of  Promise — the  land 
of  beauty  and  fullness,  "flowing  with  milk  and  honey." 
And  then  from  mortal  sight  passed  the  great  Jewish 
lawgiver,  and  God's  own  hand  buried  all  that  was  left 
to  earth. 

"That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth, 
But  no  one  heard  the  tramping 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth — 
None  but  the  bald  old  eagle 

On  gray  Bethpeor's  height, 
Which  from  his  lonely  eyrie 

Ixioked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 

"And  had  he  not  high  honor— 
The  hillside  for  his  pall— 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 
With  stars  for  tapers  tall; 

And  the  dark  rock-pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 
Over  his  bier  to  wave, 

And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 
To  lay  him   in  the  grave. 

"O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land! 

O   dark   Bethpeor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours 

And  teach  them  to  he  still. 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace. 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
He  hides  them  deep  like  the  sweet  sleep, 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well." 


XV. 

PENITENT  PETER. 

It  was  a  mournful  commentary  on  the  weakness  and 
moral  cowardice  of  human  nature  that  was  presented  to 
the  world  when  Peter  denied  his  Master— the  Master 
with  whom  he  had  lived  for  nearly  three  years,  and  to 
whose  divine  teachings  he  had  listened;  whose  love  he 
had  shared,  and  the  marvels  of  whose  miracles  he  had 
witnessed.  Even  with  the  memory  of  the  Mount  of 
Transfiguration  before  him;  of  the  dead  called  back 
from  their  rocky  sepulchers;  of  the  tossed  and  stormy 
sea  stilled  at  His  voice;  of  devils  cast  out;  of  lepers 
healed;  and  of  those  born  blind  who  were  made  to  see; 
in  the  presence  of  danger  his  faith  faltered,  and  he 
made  haste  to  deny  his  Lord. 

From  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  Christ  had  been 
brought  by  the  mob  and  delivered  up.  A  prisoner  in 
the  palace  of  the  high  priest,  He  stood  before  His 
accusers.  His  disciples  had  forsaken  Him  and  fled  as 
He  was  led  away  from  the  garden  by  the  emissaries 
of  the  chief  priests  and  elders.  But  as  the  steps  of 
the  multitude  tended  toward  the  palace.  Peter  and 
another  disciple  had  followed  Him  afar  off.  There  was 
no  l)old  and  outspoken  adherence  to  Him,  but  behind 
the  crowd  they  walked  with  quaking  hearts,  fearful  for 
their  own  safety.  Peter  could  not  quite  forget  Him. 
His  heart  was  troubled  for  His  Lord.  But  he  did  not 
say,  "I  am  His  disciple.  I  believe  in  Him  and  wherever 
He  goes  there  shall  I  be  found  with  Him."  But  with 
anxious  face  and  hesitating  step  he  enters  the  priest's 
palace  and  sits  with  the  servants  in  the  great  hall  to 
see  the  end  of  this  hasty  trial.  He  sees  his  Lord  buffeted 
and  spat  upon.  He  notes  the  majesty  and  calmness  of 
His  demeanor,  he  hears  the  charges  brought  against 
Him  by  false  witnesses,  and  the  voice  of  the  high  priest 
saying,  "I  adjure  thee  by  the  living  God  that  thou  tell 
us  whether  thou  be  the  Christ  the  Son  of  God,"  and 
the  solemn,  responsive  declaration:  "Thou  hast  said. 
Nevertheless,  1  say  unto  you,  hereafter  shall  ye  see 
the  Son  of  Man  sitting  on  the  right  hand  of  power,  and 
coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven." 

Yet  Peter  makes  no  sign  of  loyalty.  To  the  Jewish 
maid-servant  and  the  accusing  officers  he  returns  the 
same  cold,  deliberate  response,  "I  know  Him  not." 

But  one  glance  of  the  Master's  eye  was  enough  to 
touch  his  heart.  That  tender,  sorrowful,  rebuking  look 
of  Jesus  was  like  Moses'  rod  smiting  the  rock  and  from 
Ins  flinty  heart  gushed  the  warm  tides  of  penitential 
sorrow,  and  Peter  "went  out  and  wept  bitterly."  The 
strong  man  was  bowed  and  prostrate  with  his  sense  of 
guilt.  He  had  no  reproaches  left  for  the  crowd  that 
mocked  and  jeered  at  the  Son  of  God;  no  word  of 
condemnation  for  those  who  cried  "Away  with  Him! 
Crucify  Him!  Crucify  Him!"  In  his  abhorrence  of 
his  own  faithlessness  and  sinful  denial  he  saw  himself  a 
sinner  above  all  others. 

Alone,  amid  tears  and  terrible  self-reproaches,  was 
the  fearless,  unfaltering  Christian  manhood  of  Peter 
born.  No  more  faltering  for  him  after  this  experience. 
No  more  trusting  to  his  own  strength;  no  more  disloyalty 
or  shrinking  from  persecution.  Peter  became  the  typical 
rock  of  enduring  faith,  the-  bold  apostle  bearing  the 
messages  of  divine  love  to  a  perishing  world. 

And  this  story  of  Peter  has  a  wonderful  power  to 
help  the  weak  iii  these  days.  It  shows  us  that  if.  when 
weak  and  tempted,  we  sometimes  fall,  there  is  hope  for 
us  still.  Even  should  we  deny  our  Savior,  if  we  turn 
to  Him,  He  is  ready  to  forgive' and  welcome  us.  Though 
we  fall  into  sin  'we  need  not  be  discouraged.  We 
cannot  sink  so  low  but  that  the  -hand  of  our  Redeemer 
is  stretched  out  still.  Like  Peter,  we  may  arise  to  nobler 
life  and  more  enduring  faith  and  courage.  The  waters 
of  repentance  are  bitter,  but  they  are  cleansing.  Moral 


245 


Lay  Sermons. 


courage  and  spiritual  strength  are  what  we  most  need 
in  our  warfare  with  sin.  We  must  put  self  behind  us 
and  lay  hold  upon  the  Cross.  We  must  not  be  strangers 
to  the  valley  of  humiliation.  In  that  valley  we  can  best 
discern  what  we  are.  There  will  our  faults  be  perceived 
by  us,  and  there  shall  we  be  ready  to  lay  hold  upon  the 
promises. 


XVI. 
THE  ETERNAL  ROCK. 

Above  us,  looking  down  upon  the  valley's  busy  life — 
above  its  dust  and  turmoil,  its  clouds  and  its  storms — is 
lifted  the  mighty  snow-clad  front  of  our  loftiest  Sierra 
peak.  Calm  and  immovable  amid  the  tempests  and  the 
earthquake  shock,  it  stands,  a  monument  of  power  and 
an  emblem  of  endurance.  Time's  old  centuries  make  no 
impress  upon  it  in  passing.  It  stands  today  as  it  stood 
when  the  first  human  eye  was  lifted  to  behold  it — 
grand,  impressive,  majestic,  strong — the  rocky  rampart 
of  the  world. 

How  like  is  it  to  the  mighty  Rock  of  our  Salvation, 
the  enduring  and  eternal  strength  of  our  Redeemer. 
Persecution  has  assailed  that  rock ;  skepticism,  with  its 
mighty  floods,  has  sought  to  drown  it;  the  earthquakes 
of  infidel  revolutions  have  endeavored  to  destroy  its 
foundations,  but  eternal  and  changeless  as  the  stars,  the 
Rock  of  Divine  Truth  stands  firm  and  enduring. 

Christianity  is  today  the  mightiest  force  in  the  universe 
of  men;  it  is  the  power  which  lifts  us  from  the  low 
levels  of  wantonness  and  wrong  to  the  shining  hills  of 
righteousness.  Truth  gives  steadfastness,  strength.  It 
is  memorable  as  the  mountain,  clear,  white,  shining  in 
its  purity  as  its  snow-clad  crest.  The  world,  ever  since 
man's  fall,  has  been  the  battleground  between  Right  and 
Wrong,  Truth  and  Error.  The  hosts  of  Error  have  been 
mighty.  The  blood  of  martyrs  has  flowed  since  Time 
was  young.  How  does  the  infidel  hate  the  name  of 
Jesus,  although  the  name  is  but  a  synonym  of  love  and 
redemption — the  one  name  given  among  men  through 
which  we  may  hope  to  be  saved.  "I  want  no  Christ," 
says  one,  "I  do  not  believe  in  Him.  A  being  both  divine 
and  human  I  cannot  understand,  and  so  I  cannot  accept 
of  Him."  But  if  that  be  your  plea,  O  unbeliever!  how 
can  you  accept  of  God,  your  Maker?  Can  you  compre 
hend  the  eternity  of  His  being?  Can  your  finite  mind 
grasp  His  omnipotence  and  His  infinity?  Tell  me  what 
God  is  so  that  I  may  understand  Him.  Show  me  the 
hiding  places  of  His  power.  Explain  to  me  how  in 
obedience  to  His  fiat  the  world  stood  forth — how  "He 
spake  and  it  was  done."  Is  there,  O  man !  no  truth 
beyond  what  you  can  think?  Cannot  the  Infinite  out 
reach  beyond  the  feeble  limits  of  your  thought?  Can 
you  measure  His  ways  and  His  purposes?  May  there 
be  no  law  beyond  the  realm  of  law  of  which  you  are 
cognizant,  no  being  beyond  that  which  you  are  able  to 
compass? 

O  man  !  treading  the  narrow  bridge  of  doubt,  wandering 
in  the  darkness  of  unbelief,  strike  in  your  blindness  and 
doubt,  but  your  puny  arm  lets  fall  its  blows  upon  the 
mighty  Rock  to  which  Ages  cling.  Strike!  but  high 
upon  that  Rock  we  climb,  and  all  of  Time's  stormy 
billows  roll  beneath  us.  Strike!  but  He  who  conquered 
death  and  th/  grave  proclaims  that  "No  man  cometh 
unto  the  Father  but  by  me."  Strike!  and  proclaim  that 
there  is  no  Christ,  no  Redeemer  of  Men,  the  tempest  of 
your  unbelief  cannot  shut  out  that  still  small  voice  that 
is  heard  above  its  roaring  billows,  "He  that  denieth  me 
denieth  the  Father  also." 

O  world  deluged  with  sin!  the  ark  of  thy  Redemption 
is  this  Christ  whom  thou  scornest.  The  "God  made 
manifest  in  the  flesh"  to  whom  "every  knee  shall  bow 
and  whom  every  tongue  shall  confess." 


To  that  mountain  of  holiness  look  up.  Climb  to  its 
heights  of  faith.  The  "Rock  of  Ages"  is  the  hope  of 
the  race.  No  storm  of  earth  can  sweep  you  from  it. 
No  billows  of  doubt  or  of  sorrow  can  overwhelm  you 
there. 

"I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from  whence 
cometh  my  help.  My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  who 
made  heaven  and  earth."  He  is  the  Rock  of  our  Salva 
tion—like  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land. 


XVII. 
CHRISTIANITY  MEANS  ACTION. 

Christianity  is  not  merely,  as  some  suppose,  a  certain 
definable  condition  of  feeling,  a  fixed  attitude  of  faith, 
but  it  is  life,  a  life  that  implies  action  and  which  holds 
and  embodies  the  mightiest  forces  of  the  universe. 

The  Christian's  life  is  illimitable  in  its  correspondences. 
His  regenerate  nature,  with  all  its  higher  faculties,  is  in 
close  correspondence  with  the  Infinite.  His  life  becomes 
fuller  and  his  gladness  richer  as  it  is  brought  into  wider 
correspondence  with  the  Heavenly  Father.  This  cor 
respondence  we  call  communion  with  God,  or  sometimes 
it  is  spoken  of  as  faith  or  love  which  goes  out  from 
the  human  heart  toward  the  Divine. 

But  "faith  without  works  is  dead."  And  it  is  just 
here  that  the  Christian  Scientist  makes  his  mistake. 
Faith  and  prayer  he  expects  to  do  the  work  that  God 
intended  to  he  accomplished,  or  hoped,  through  human 
instrumentalities.  Prayer  is  a  good  thing  and  is  essential 
to  Christian  growth — it  is  the  vital  breath  of  Christian 
life — but  if  the  intelligent  Christian  has  a  very  sick 
friend  he  will  supplement  his  progress  with  the  best 
medical  skill  to  be  obtained,  and  then  when  he  has  done 
his  part,  used  the  means  which  God  has  provided  for 
healing  and  asked  the  blessing  of  God  upon  their  use, 
he  may  wait  with  some  degree  of  confidence  for  the 
answer  to  his  petitions. 

There  must  be  something  more  than  passivity  in  the 
Christian  life;  there  are  times  when  action  must  be  the 
watchword  and  the  human  and  divine  forces  must  co 
operate.  We  cannot  stand  with  folded  hands  when  God 
bids  us  work — idlers  in  His  vineyard. 

"Act,  act  in  the  living  present, 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead." 

That  is  our  mission  here — that  is  duty.  Then  when  sor 
row  and  darkness  and  deceit  come  we  can  lift  up  our 
hearts  and  our  hands  unto  God,  and  we  shall  find  that  it  is 
the  upstretched  hand  of  ours  that  meets  with  the  down- 
stretched  hand  of  the  Divine  Father. 

Not  until  we  positively  set  out  upon  the  path  which 
Christ  has  marked  out  for  us,  do  we  become  disciples. 
Obedience  to  God  can  alone  convince  us  of  the  love  of 
God.  Oneness  with  God  is  the  strongest  desire  of  the 
Christian's  heart,  for  life  separated  from  its  causative 
life  is  not  true  life.  The  earnest  Christian  is  alive  in 
every  fiber  to  all  that  is  pure  and  lovely  and  high  and 
beaiitiful  and  holy.  He  not  only  wishes  to  be  blessed 
but  he  longs  to  bless  others.  To  bring  men  into  sym 
pathy  with  and  to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  is  the  prin 
ciple  which  actuates  him.  To  have  men  know  God  and 
Jesus  Christ,  whom  He  has  sent — it  is  that  for  which  he 
labors. 

And  what  does  such  knowledge  bring?  Eternal  life. 
"He  that  hath  the  Son  of  God  hath  life,  and  he  that 
hath  not  the  Son,  hath  not  life."  "This,  as  we  take  it," 
says  Drummond,  "defines  the  correspondence  which  is 
to  bridge  the  grave.  This  is  the  clew  to  the  nature  of 
the  life  that  lies  at  the  back  of  the  spiritual  organism. 
And  this  is  the  true  solution  of  the  mystery  of  Eternal 


246 


Steadfastness. 


Life.  .  .  .  The  fact  to  note  at  present  is  that  this  is 
not  an  organic  correspondence,  but  a  spiritual  correspond 
ence.  It  comes  not  from  generation  but  from  regener 
ation.  The  relation  between  the  spiritual  man  and  his 
environment  is,  in  theological  language,  a  filial  relation. 
With  the  new  spirit,  the  filial  correspondence,  he  knows 
the  Father— and  this  is  Life  Eternal.  This  is  not  only  the 
real  relation,  but  the  only  possible  relation.  'Neither 
knoweth  any  man  the  Father  save  the  Son,  and  he  to 
whomsover  the  Son  will  reveal  Him.'  And  this  on  purely 
natural  grounds.  It  takes  the  Divine  to  know  the  Divine — 
but  in  no  more  mysterious  sense  than  it  takes  the  human 
to  understand  the  human." 

But  sometimes  even  the  brightest  faith  is  clouded. 
But  if  we  read  our  Bibles  as  we  should  we  shall  find 
there  a  rebuke  for  every  doubt.  Listen  to  the  trium 
phant  voice  of  faith  in  Romans  viii:  35-39:  "Who  shall 
separate  us  from  the  love  of  Christ?  Shall  tribulation,  or 
distress,  or  persecution,  or  famine,  or  nakedness,  or  peril, 
or  sword?"  "Nay,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more  than 
conquerors  through  Him  that  loved  us.  For  I  am  per 
suaded  that  neither  death,  nor  life,  nor  angels,  nor  prin 
cipalities,  nor  powers,  nor  things  present,  nor  things  to 
come,  nor  height,  nor  depth,  nor  any  other  creature,  shall 
be  able  to  separate  us  from  the  love  of  God,  which  is 
in  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord." 

Oh,  glorious  hope  to  the  Christian  believer!  One  with 
God  through  all  the  eternal  ages.  Living  in  His  pres 
ence,  sharing  His  life,  drinking  from  the  fountains  of 
His  knowledge  and  growing  continually  with  fuller  cor 
respondence  with  all  the  perfections  of  the  Divine  char 
acter.  This  is  the  direction  in  which  true  Christianity 
tends.  It  is  no  mere  selfish  desire  for  personal  safety, 
but  it  is  love  to  God  and  love  to  the  race.  And  it  means 
labor  and  sacrifice.  It  means  that  the  Christian  shall  be 
instant  in  season  and  out  of  season  in  his  labor  for  the 
salvation  of  souls.  It  is  faith  and  works  combined  that 
constitute  Christian  manhood.  No  idle  vaporings,  no 
ecstatic  faith  unaccompanied  by  works,  no  proclamations 
of  personal  sinlessness,  will  you  hear  from  him  who  is 
fighting  "the  good  fight  of  faith."  But  you  will  find 
the  Christian  warrior,  battling  continuously  with  sin, 
clinging  with  one  hand  to  his  sword  by  which  he  resists 
besetting  temptations,  and  laying  hold  with  the  other 
hand  upon  the  cross  of  Christ  where  his  redemption  has 
been  wrought  and  the  hope  of  salvation  secured.  It  is 
in  the  cross  of  Christ  alone  that  he  glories  and  at  that 
cross  he  lays  all  his  triumphs  down. 


XVIII. 
STEADFASTNESS. 

The  world  is  full  of  themes  from  which  we  may  draw 
instruction.  We  may  find  sermons  alike  "in  trees  and 
running  brooks;"  in"  flowers  and  starry  worlds;  in  the 
mighty  and  resistless  ocean,  and  in  the  mountains  whose 
loftv  heads  are  familiar  with  the  skies.  From  these  and 
numberless  other  sources  in  Nature  may  we  gather  in 
spiration. 

But  none  of  these  themes  will  we  contemplate  today, 
but  we  will  turn  over  the  pages  of  sacred  history  and 
study  there  some  of  the  characters  set  forth.  We  will 
take"  for  our  theme  Christian  Manhood,  and  glance  at 
the  influence  which  it  has  exerted  upon  the  race. 

First,  let  us  go  down  into  Egypt,  the  ancient  land  of 
wealth  and  learning;  the  cradle  of  the  arts  and  sciences; 
the  land  from  whose  priestly  teachings  and  religious 
mysticism  Grecian  philosophy  formulated  some  of  its 
wisest  teachings,  and  from  which  Plato  perhaps  borrowed 
his  idea  of  the  soul's  immortality. 


Surrounded  by  the  pagan  superstition  of  the  masses, 
among  whom  almost  every  animal  had  its  worshipers, 
while  the  sun  and  stars  and  all  the  passions  which  con 
trol  men  were  represented  by  some  deity,  we  find  a 
young  man  named  Joseph,  the"  great  grandson  of  Abra 
ham  the  "Father  of  the  Faithful"  —  exalted,  after  some 
of  the  most  trying  vicissitudes  and  painful  experiences 
to  kingly  power  and  dignity,  the  favorite  of  a  pagan 
sovereign,  and  second  only  to  him  in  authority.  Within 
the  splendid  palaces  of  Egypt  he  was  an  honored  guest. 
Gifted  intellectually  beyond  most  men  of  his  age;  pos 
sessing  rare  personal  beauty  and  charm  of  manner,  he- 
was  the  most  popular  man  in  social  as  well  as  political 
spheres  among  those  ancient,  pleasure-loving  Egyptians. 

Cleopatra  was  not  the  only  siren  of  ancient  Egypt. 
The  dark  and  liquid-eyed  sorceresses  of  the  Nile  were 


about  him  in  palace  hall  and  in  all  the  mazes  of  pleasure 
that  he  was  obliged  to  tread.  He  was  no  stranger  to  the 
bright  smiles  of  Egypt's  loveliest  daughters.  Like  the 
melody  of  softly-falling  waters  were  the  voices  of  these 
enchantresses.  Like  the  sun  shining  on  the  faces  of  the 
flowers  were  their  smiles.  The  worship  of  Isis  and  Osiris 
was  the  popular  worship.  Monotheism  was  but  a  single 
thread  in  the  religion  of  the  Egyptian.  Alone  amid 
superstition  and  the  unnumbered  gods  of  Egypt,  Joseph 
stood  in  his  reverence  for  the  one  true  God.  Think  of 
the  temptations  that  assailed  him  on  every  hand;  of  the 
pleasures  that  were  spread  as  nets  for  his  feet;  of  the 
enticements  of  wealth;  the  luring  voice  of  flattery;  of 
the  winning  tones  of  pagan  enchantresses;  of  the  pomp 
and  pageantry  that  filled  his  life,  and  remember  that 
amid  all  this  "splendor  of  power;  amid  all  this  popular 
adulation;  amid  all  these  temptations  to  worldliness  and 
greed  for  greatness,  he  still  kept  his  simple  faith  in  the 
God  of  his  fathers  and  remained  strong  in  his  integrity, 
spotless  in  his  morality,  mighty  in  his  trust  in  Jehovah. 

How  grand  the  work  which  he  accomplished  as  the 
instrument  under  Providence,  for  the  preservation  of  the 
Hebrew  people.  He  nourished  and  fed  them  while 
they  were  yet  small,  and  planted  them  in  a  fertile  land, 
and  here  they  increased  and  multiplied,  while  Joseph 
walked  before  them  in  his  uprightness,  loyal  at  all  times 
to  the  God  of  Israel.  Take  his  name  from  the  early 
history  of  the  Hebrew  people  in  Egypt  and  how  would 
it  darken!  The  name  of  Joseph  is  an  honored  name, 
not  alone  for  his  rank  and  power,  but  as  the  noblest  ex 
emplar  of  Christian  manhood  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived. 
And  now  we  will  turn  backward  a  few  pages  in  sacred 
history  to  the  time  when  the  world  was  young,  and 
many  peoples  dwelt  in  tents,  leading  a  wandering, 
pastoral  life,  simple  in  their  habits,  and  drifting  here 
and  there  according  to  the  necessities  of  their  flocks  and 
herds.  At  this  period,  in  the  pagan  city  of  Ur,  in  the 
land  of  the  Chaldeans,  was  born  Abram,  the  son  of 
Terali,  a  descendant  of  Shem.  This  city,  even  in  that 
earlv  morning  of  civilization,  was  one  of  the  proudest  of 
ancient  days.  Here  were  nurtured  commerce  and  the 
arts  and  sciences;  here  poets  sang,  and  the  astronomers 
studied  the  mysteries  of  the  stars.  But  the  Christianity 
inculcated  by  the  earlier  patriarchs  had  become  almost 
a  dead  letter.  Idolatry  flourished,  and  the  knowledge  o; 
the  true  God  had  gradually  faded  from  the  minds  of 
men.  The  demoralizing  effects  of  superstitious  worship 
had  its  influence  upon  the  people  by  whom  this  early 
follower  of  Jehovah  was  surrounded.  So  out  from  their 
midst  God  called  him,  and  at  the  first  intimation  of  the 
divine  will  he  made  ready  to  depart.  Ur  of  the  Chal 
deans  faded  from  his  vision,  with  all  its  pride  of  civili 
zation,  and  all  the  intimate  associations  of  his  cnilcl- 
hood  and  earlier  and  later  manhood.  Distinctly  recog 
nizing  the  personality  of  the  God  who  bids  him  forth,  a 
solitary  Christian  among  an  idolatrous  people,  he  de 
parts  "unquestioningly,  at  the  divine  command,  in 
known  lands. 

247 


Lay  Sermons. 


Follow  him  in  all  his  journeyings,  go  with  him  where 
he  rears  his  altars  for  worship  underneath  the  blue  of 
the  bending  skies — the  roof  of  man's  first  temple.  See 
him  sitting  in  the  door  of  his  tent  at  Mainre.  Venerable 
and  white-haired,  yet  with  the  dignity  of  a  majestic 
manhood,  look  at  him  as  he  goes  out  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  and,  standing  upon  the  plain  with  his  face  turned 
toward  Sodom,  hear  him  as  he  pleads  for  the  doomed 
city.  Follow  him  as  at  the  age  of  1:20  years  he  goes  out  at 
the  command  of  God  to  offer  as  a  sacrifice  his  young  and 
tenderly  loved  son  Isaac,  in  whom  was  centered  all  his 
hopes  for  the  fulfillment  of  God's  promise  that  he  should 
become  the  father  of  a  great  people.  Fancy  the  an 
guish  with  which  his  heart  was  rent,  as  taking  the  wood 
of  the  burnt  offering  and  laying  it  upon  Isaac's  shoulders, 
and  then  with  the  fire  and  knife  in  his  own  hand  they 
set  out  together,  and  Isaac  turning  to  him  the  face  that 
he  so  loved,  said:  "Behold  the  fire  and  the  wood,  but 
where  is  the  lamb  for  a  burnt  offering?"  How  wisely 
must  Isaac  have  been  trained,  how  implicit  must  have 
been  his  trust,  not  only  in  his  father,  but  in  that  unseen 
God  whom  he  worshiped !  There  was  no  struggle  to 
escape,  no  outcry,  no  resistance;  but  like  a  lamb  he  was 
laid  upon  the  altar  for  sacrifice. 

How  sublime  the  faith  that  could  stand  a  test  like 
this  and  not  falter!  What  wonder  that  his  name  is 
crowned  with  immortality !  Xo  more  earthly  trials  for 
his  faith,  for  over  this  greatest  one  he  had  risen  supreme. 
It  was  that  religious  faith  of  his  which  exalted  him 
above  his  age,  and  sent  the  story  of  his  life  ringing  clown 
to  us  through  all  the  intervening  centuries.  The  proudest 
title  that  earth  can  give  is  his,  "The  Father  of  the  Faith 
ful."  This  fidelity  to  duty  is  the  crowning  glory  of  his 
Christian  manhood;  it  is  the  beacon  light  of  his  history. 

One  of  his  grandest  characteristics  was  consistency. 
He  believed  in  God,  and  he  exalted  Him  above  all  his 
earthly  desires.  AVhatever  God  commanded  he  was  ready 
to  perform.  Implicit  faith  sprang  from  his  acceptance  of 
God.  There  was  no  half-way  devotion  in  the  love  which 
he  gave  his  Maker.  There  was  no  question  of  expediency 
in  his  worship. 

Do  the  annals  of  the  race  furnish  a  sublimer  exemplar 
of  loyalty?  What  the  church  wants  today  is  this  same 
exalted  Christian  manhood;  this  unswerving  devotion  to 
duty;  this  sublime  heroism  of  purpose  which  lent  to  the 
name  of  the  patriarch  Abraham  a  luster  which  the  lapse 
of  four  thousand  years  has  not  been  able  to  dim— a  reful 
gence  which  shall  not  wane  with  the  latest  of  time's  cen 
turies. 


XIX. 

"RING  OUT,  O  EASTER  BELLS!" 

Our  thoughts  naturally  go  back  this  morning — "back 
through  the  tangled  thicket  of  years"— to  a  quiet 
garden,  not  far  from  Jerusalem,  in  which  was  a  rock- 
hewn  sepulcher.  Sentinel  soldiers,  stern  Romans,  had 
been  placed  beside  its  closed  doors  to  guard  it  and 
keep  it.  For  three  days  had  the  still  sleeper  lain  in 
hushed  and  breathless  silence  behind  that  sealed  en 
trance.  During  that  time  there  had  been  no  stir  of  life 
within.  There  was  no  question  but  what  the  mystery 
of  death  was  there.  It  had  succeeded  the  agony  of  the 
cross.  It  had  followed  swift  upon  the  dying  utterance 
of  Calvary:  "Jt  is  finished." 

The  shadows  of  night  still  lingered  in  the  East.  But 
a  single  faint  thread  of  light  told  of  the  coming  dawn. 
Yet  Jerusalem  slept.  Bethany  was  hushed  in  rest.  Even 
to  those  who  had  lingered  longest  at  the  cross  in  tears  and 
sorrow,  sleep  had  come  at  last.  But  as  the  dawn  ap 
proached,  Mary  awoke;  her  heart  heavy  with  its  woe. 
She  could  not  rest  and  so  she  arose,  and  with  quiet  haste 
made  ready  to  wend  her  way  to  the  garden  where  her 
Lord  was  laid.  On  Moab's  peak  there  was  a  faint,  rosy 


gleam,  and  Olivet  was  brightening,  and  on  the  pools  of 
Hinnom  fell  a  flush  of  light,  while  the  Temple's  spires 
gleamed  goldenly  against  the  sky.  The  birds  twittered 
softly  in  the  trees,  and  everywhere  were  sounds  that 
told  another  morning  had  come.  In  Mary's  hands  were 
spices,  and  precious  ointment,  and  odorous  frankincense, 
which  she  was  bearing  to  make  sweeter  the  rest  of  Him 
she  had  loved  and  worshiped.  Faithful  Mary!  She  did 
not  understand,  but  still  she  believed  and  loved.  Christ, 
though  dead,  was  still  her  Christ,  her  Savior.  Under 
neath  all  this  mystery  of  His  death  she  must  have  felt 
the  stirring  of  some  undefined  hope. 

The  dawn  grew  brighter  as  she  entered  the  garden 
place  and  drew  nearer  to  the  tomb.  Where  were  the 
sentinels?  Where  the  stone?  What  meant  that  open 
door?  Not  yet  does  she  comprehend,  but  with  tearful 
eyes  she  and  the  other  faithful  women  who  have  joined 
her  draw  nearer  and  look  within.  They  see  not  the 
body  of  their  Lord,  but  two  men  stood  by  them  in  shin 
ing  raiment,  saying,  "Why  seek  ye  the  living  among  the 
dead?  He  is  not  here,  He  is  risen." 

Sing,  sing,  O  Earth !  and  break  forth  into  gladness  ye 
rocks  and  trees !  Pour,  ye  waters,  richer  tides  of  melody, 
and  ye  everlasting  hills  break  forth  into  rejoicing,  for 
the  Lord  has  risen ! 

But  still  Jerusalem  and  the  world  sleeps;  sleeps  while 
angels  tune  their  harps  to  higher  notes  of  praise  at  re 
demption  accomplished  and  immortality  made  sure  for 
man.  That  first  Easter  dawn  was  unnoted  but  by  few 
among  men,  but  heaven  rang  with  alleluias  and  the  song 
of  the  Lamb  that  was  slain.  Easter  is  especially  sug 
gestive  to  us  of  three  things — love,  hope,  and  immortality. 
First  of  all  is  the  infinite  love  of  Christ  for  man.  His 
death  was  the  seal  of  that  love.  It  was  the  purchase 
price  of  man's  pardon.  It  is  the  gospel  of  love  that 
Christ  brings  to  us.  "Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God 
with  all  thy  heart,  and  thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  this  is 
the  foundation  of  all  that  Christ  taught  us.  It  is  a 
simple  creed — this  gospel  of  love  to  God  and  love  to  man. 
And  this  divine  teacher  tells  us  that  we  should  love  God 
because  He  first  loved  us. 

Take  the  beautiful  Easter  Day,  then,  and  let  it  be 
love-crowned.  Pause  over  it — the  fullness  and  sweet 
ness,  the  joy  and  the  completeness  of  divine  compassion. 
Let  it  breathe  of  immortal  hopes  and  undying  faith. 
Fill  it  with  songs  of  victory  and  of  triumph;  shout 
aloud:  "O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting?  O  Grave !  where  is 
thy  victory?"  for  on  this  day  the  risen  Christ  did  con 
quer  death  and  gave  immortal  life  to  man.  Now,  as  our 
friends  pass  from  us,  we  know  that,  while  Death  keeps 
the  key  on  this  side  of  the  door  through  which  they 
pass,  Love  keeps  it  upon  the  other — the  Love  that  is 
mighty  to  save.  So  good-by  to  fear;  good-by  to  doubt 
and  sorrow;  since  the  tomb  is  but  the  pathway  to  heavenly 
life  and  immortality.  Hope!  What  do  we  hope  for? 
Ring  out  again  your  peals,  O  Easter  bells,  and  let  the 
sweet,  glad  air  thrill  with  the  music  of  hope.  Listen: 
"As  in  Adam  all  died,  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made 
alive."  "The  Lord  is  risen."  O  endless  life  to  come! 
That  is  the  melody  that  the  hills  ring  of  today.  The 
risen  Christ  is  our  Redeemer.  Through  Him  we  have 
all  things— not  the  hope  of  this  life  only,  but  that  which 
is  to  come.  He  hath  conquered  death  for  us.  His  arm 
hath  vanquished  our  foe. 

Immortality!  "In  my  Father's  house  are  many  man 
sions.  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you,  that  where  I  am 
there  ye  may  be  also." 

Ring  out,  O  Easter  bells!  again  ring,  not  only  of 
eternal  life,  but  of  home.  Those  many  mansions  are  ours, 
and  are  they  not  significant  of  home?  Oh,  there,  in  the 
life  to  come,  we  shall  be  no  restless  wanderers  upon  un 
tried  shores.  The  home  is  there,  the  blessed  resting  place; 
the  mansion  furnished  and  prepared  by  Him  who  has 
risen,  and  there  sometimes  He  may  come  and  sit  with  us 


248 


The  Black  Man. 


while  He  unfolds  to  us  all  the  mystery  of  His  provi 
dence  and  the  fullness  of  His  love;  and  there,  in  those 
heavenly  chambers,  may  we  entertain  the  loved  of  earth, 
who  may  sit  with  us  there,  not  only  with  the  Master, 
but  with  angel  and  archangel,  while  we  study  with  them 
the  wonders  of  the  created  universe,  and  the  marvels 
of  infinite  love. 

So  ring  once  more,  O  bells  of  Kaster !  ring  of  Love, 
of  Hope,  and  Immortality;  ring  of  mansions  celestial, 
of  joys  divine.  King  of  the  lowly  sepulcher  in  the 
lonely  garden,  and  of  Him  who  is  "the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life,"— the  Christ,  the  Lord  of  Life  and  of  Glory. 


THE  BLACK  MAN. 

There  is  nothing  in  life  that  makes  us  so  cheerful  as 
unfailing  faith  in  the  Heavenly  Father.  Such  faith  is 
strong;  it  is  bold;  it  is  sustaining.  Xo  matter  what  may 
befall  us,  if  behind  it  all  we  are  able  to  recognize  the 
hand  of  Our  Father,  we  do  not  shrink.  We  say,  God 
knows,  and  I  will  trust  Him.  It  looks  dark  to  me  now, 
but  I  know  that  by-and-by  all  this  darkness  will  be 
illuminated,  and  the  mysteries  of  Providence  will  be 
revealed.  Time  does  not  exist  for  God,  for  to  Him  "a 
thousand  years  are  as  one  day,"  and  shall  we  seek  to 
fix  limitations  for  Him— shall  we  fail  to  trust  Him 
because  He  does  not  fly  to  our  rescue  speedily,  as  soon  as 
we  cry  out  to  Him? 

Down  the  long  track  of  eternal  years  God  sees.  The 
past  and  the  present  are  all  open  to  His  sight.  Not 
only  the  beginning  of  things,  but  all  the  ten  thousand 
influences  which  surge  in  upon  them,  and  which  shape 
and  mould  and  determine  results.  Not  a  thread  in  all 
the  web  of  human  destiny  but  He  holds  in  His  hand. 
Not  a  result  but  what  He  determined  all  the  infinite 
causes  which  brought  it  about. 

History  is  a  wonderful  revealer  of  the  ways  in  which 
God  deals  with  men.  Very  clearly  are  we  enabled,  oft- 
times,  to  trace  the  wisdom  of  His  purposes,  and  the  lines 
of  His  beneficence  through  the  darkness  of  the  centuries. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  history  of  American  slavery, 
and  the  condition  of  the  black  man  in  the  wilds  of 
Africa.  No  well-established  national  life  and  policy 
existed  among  these  black  men  who  were  brought  as 
slaves  to  this  country.  They  knew  nothing  beyond  tribal 
relations,  and  recognized  no  law  save  that  of  blind  devo 
tion  to  their  chiefs.  Through  that  was  evolved  in  their 
dull  minds  the  idea  of  obedience,  and  submission  to  some 
form  of  authority.  But  still  they  were  wild  and  untutored 
barbarians,  far  beyond  the  realm  of  civilization,  and  in 
the  midst  of  environments  that  were  hostile  to  all  the 
advance  of  civilizing  forces.  But  cupidity  and  the  lust 
for  gain  were  the  missionaries  in  disguise  which  reached 
them.  They  did  not  come  of  their  own  free  will  and 
plant  their  'colonies  in  the  wild  wastes  of  America's  then 
uninhabited  wilderness,  thus  grafting  upon  this  New 
World  the  savagery  of  the  Old,  but  they  came  as  slaves, 
confronting  civilization,  set  down  at  once  upon  the  plan 
tation  and  in  the  homes  where  they  were  brought  daily 
into  association  with  the  higher  life  of  the  most  cultured 
people.  In  the  majority  of  cases  they  were,  without 
doubt,  well  treated  and  comfortably  housed  and  fed. 
Their  masters  were  men  accustomed  to  being  obeyed, 
men  of  character,  of  culture,  and  with  qualities  com 
manding  respect.  This  long  period  of  slavery  was  in 
many  respects  just  what  the  black  man  needed;  it  was 
the  lever  by  which  he  was  to  be  lifted  out  from  his  sav 
agery  higher  and  higher  toward  the  plane  of  civilization. 
It  was  an  education  for  him,  for  the  negro  is  imitative 
and  always  anxious  to  adopt  the  habits  and  the  language 


of  his  superiors.  In  the  old  days  there  were  many  "Uncle 
Toms"  among  the  slaves,  men  of  great,  tender  hearts, 
with  natures  redeemed  from  every  trace  of  barbarism, 
and  inspired  by  an  immeasurable  love  for  Christ. 

And  now  we  have  millions  of  these  children  of  the 
"Dark  Continent"  in  our  midst,  large  numbers  of  whom 
are  acting  well  their  part  as  citizens  of  this  great 
Republic.  It  is  marvelous  to  note  the  advance  that  the 
race  has  made  in  America  in  the  past  200  years.  There 
are  men  of  brilliant  minds  among  them;  scholarly  men; 
there  are  men  who,  since  the  war,  have  acquired  fortunes 
which  are  estimated  by  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars; 
they  are,  considering  how  recent  theii  emancipation  from 
slavery,  industrious  and  thrifty;  they  do  not  fall  below 
the  wiiite  race  in  their  aptness  for  acquiring  knowledge, 
and  for  the  black  man  we  admit  that  a  bright  era  has 
been  ushered  in,  with  large  possibilities  for  his  future. 

In  all  this  we  cannot  be  blind  to  the  workings  of  an 
overruling  providence,  and  we  are  not  slow  to  see  the 
methods  by  which  He  has  wrought  out  these  grand 
results;  yet  a  century  ago  no  person  whose  sympathies 
were  with  the  enslaved  would  have  thought  of  advancing 
the  idea  that  southern  slavery  was  the  best  school  that 
could  have  been  provided  for  the  education  of  colored 
freemen.  But  in  no  other  way  would  they  have  been 
so  naturally  brought  into  such  an  educational  relationship 
with  the  white  man.  A  few  missionaries  in  the  interior 
of  Africa,  laboring  never  so  faithfully,  could  not  have 
hoped  for  or  realized  such  large  results  from  their  lalmrs 
as  have  been  brought  about  through  the  providence  of 
God,  in  the  transplanting  of  these  millions  from  Africa 
to  the  homes  and  cotton-fields  of  the  South. 

Still  these  results  do  by  no  means  excuse  the  sin  and 
wrong  of  slavery;  it  is  God  alone  who  has  overruled  it 
for  good.  But  it  teaches  us  that  God's  hand  is  still  at 
the  helm  of  human  affairs,  although  His  ways  are  not 
always  man's  ways. 

So  let  our  faith  be  firm,  our  trust  unfaltering  in  the 
providence  of  God.  Let  us  never  forget  that  there  are 
no  chance  happenings  in  this  universe;  that  law  is  as 
dominant  in  the  spiritual  as  in  the  natural  world.  God 
is  everywhere  sovereign  rider  of  this  vast  universe.  Noth 
ing  can  occur  that  He  does  not  permit  for  some  wise 
purpose,  and  all  that  is  evil  He  will  overrule  for  good. 

With  this  faith  in  Him  we  may  have  the  trust  and 
the  feeling  of  safety  possessed  by  the  little  child  who 
believes  that  its  father  is  able  and  its  mother  is  willing 
to  give  it  all  it  needs  and  asks  for,  and  so  is  secure 
from  anxiety  and  dread,  its  little  life  full  of  the  sunshine 
of  peace  and  rest.  "  Underneath  thee  are  the  Everlasting 
Arms,"  and  God's  love  shall  bear  them  up  as  an  eagle's 
wings  far  above  the  storms  of  life,  overshadowed  by  His 
protecting  providence  and  enveloped  by  the  sunshine  of 
His  abiding  presence.  Cradled  in  our  'Father's  care,  the 
storms  of  Time  may  blow  about  us,  but  they  cannot 
narm.  Joy  and  safety  shall  be  ours  forever. 


XXI. 
SABBATH-BREAKING. 

The  American  republic  is  built  upon  Christianity.  It 
is  the  very  foundation  stone  upon  which  it  is  laid.  From 
over  the  pathless  seas  our  pilgrim  fathers  came  to  the 
wilderness  of  this  New  World  for  freedom,  to  worship 
God  according  to  the  dictates  of  their  own  consciences, 
to  a  land  where  they  might  reverence  the  Sablmth  and 
rear  their  humble  church-spires;  where,  independent  of 
the  dictation  of  the  State,  they  might  worship  as  they 
saw  fit,  unawed  by  priests  or  prelates  or  the  powers  that 
be.  In  their  Declaration  of  Independence  all  human 
rights  were  recognized  as  God-given,  and  as  they  met 


24«J 


Lay  Sermons, 


in  convention  to  frame  that  noblest  of  human  instru 
ments,  the  Constitution  of  these  United  States,  not  a 
step  was  taken  until  prayer  was  offered  for  the  divine 
blessing  upon  the  work  before  them.  \Ve  have  inscribed 
also  upon  some  of  the  coin  of  the  country  that  noble 
declaration,  "In  God  we  trust."  The  Bible  is  the  book 
upon  which  our  most  solemn  oaths  of  office  are  taken, 
and  witnesses  in  our  courts  are  sworn  to  tell  the  truth 
in  the  name  of  the  God  of  this  Christian  people.  Every 
where  we  meet  with  evidence  of  the  universal  recognition 
of  a  divine,  overruling  power,  to  whom  we  owe  allegiance. 
All  over  this  broad  land,  from  ocean  to  ocean,  the  church 
spires  are  lifted  with  fingers  pointed  to  the  skies.  The 
Sabbath  bells  ring  out  the  call  to  worship,  and  the  sacred 
hush  of  the  day  is  felt  as  traffic  ceases  and  business 
generally  is  laid  aside,  and  Christian  people  rejoice  in 
this  clay  of  blessed  hope. 

But  there  are  many  things  that  make  us  tremble  for 
the  future  of  this  nation,  for  how  can  we  remain  a 
Christian  people  and  yet  perpetually  trample  upon  divine 
law? 

Even  to  the  least  observing  among  us  it  must  be 
apparent  thai  Christian  America  is  in  danger  of  having 
the  American  Sabbath  supplanted  by  the  continental 
Sabbath  of  Europe,  where  God's  holy  day  becomes  a 
holiday  and  the  highest  needs  of  man  are  unrecognized. 

The  Sabbath  day  was  given  us  for  rest,  for  moral  and 
spiritual  culture,  as  a  something  to  answer  our  sense  of 
those  diviner  needs  of  men  which  the  merely  material 
cannot  satisfy.  But  the  continental  Sabbath  thrusts  all 
those  higher  needs  aside.  It  calls  simply  for  pleasure, 
as  if  all  that  man  needed  on  this  God-given  seventh  day 
of  rest  was  to  be  idle  and  to  be  amused.  The  spiritual 
needs  of  the  race  it  utterly  ignores.  Hence  our  Sunday 
theaters,  Sunday  excursions,  Sunday  baseball  games, 
Sunday  concerts,  and  the  like — all  innovations  that  have 
crept  in  upon  our  American  Sabbath,  which  was  originally 
one  of  worship  and  delightful  family  communion.  The 
baseball  game,  balloon  ascension,  pleasure  excursions  and 
Sunday  theatricals  are  no  more  in  keeping  with  the  spirit 
of  our  American  Sabbath  than  are  the  Chinese  temples 
in  our  midst  or  the  heathen  worship  of  idols.  "Remember 
the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy."  That  is  God's  law,  and 
if  we  would  be  His  people  we  must  obey  it. 

A  Sabbath  independent  of  worship  is  not  a  Christian 
Sabbath,  and  take  away  all  worship  and  the  American 
Sabbath  could  not  be  perpetuated.  Take  the  veriest 
infidel  in  search  of  a  home,  and  he  would  feel  far  more 
secure  to  build  his  home  in  a  place  where  there  were 
Christian  churches  and  recognized  Sabbaths  than  in  one 
where  none  existed.  His  feelings,  though  he  may  not 
give  them  expression,  are  in  keeping  with  those  of  a 
party  of  African  explorers  who  were  lost  in  the  midst 
of  the  Dark  Continent  and  feared  that  they  might  lose 
their  lives  by  the  hands  of  the  relentless  savages.  Climb 
ing  a  slight  elevation,  they  looked  down  in  the  valley 
below  them  and  espied  the  spire  of  a  Christian  church. 
With  that  sight  all  their  fears  fled  and  they  exclaimed, 
"We  are  safe!  We  are  safe!" 

The  Christian  Sabbath  is  the  only  thing  that  stands 
between  our  working-men  and  incessant  toil.  Take  from 
it  the  recognized  sacredness  of  the  day,  and  the  civil 
enactments  that  hedge  it  in  from  labor,  and  it  would 
soon  disappear.  Make  it  simply  a  holiday  and  traffic 
would  quickly  <encroach  upon  it,  greed  would  seize  upon 
it,  and  toil  would  become  a  relentless  task-master,  exact 
ing  service  through  seven  days  instead  of  six.  Sin  always 
brings  its  penalty,  and  trample  upon  the  Sabbath  and 
punishment  will  as  surely  follow  as  the  night  succeeds 
the  day.  We  cannot  be  a  Christian  people  and  a  Sab 
bathless  people.  We  cannot  continue  free  and  enlightened 
and  prosperous  and  yet  disregard  this  one  sacred  day 
which  is  given  us  for  rest  and  worship,  for  moral  culture 


250 


and  improvement.  Ignore  the  claims  of  the  Sabbath 
upon  us  as  a  people  and  we  drift  out  into  lawlessness,  to 
oppression,  and  the  denial  of  the  spiritual  and  moral 
rights  of  man. 

Count  Montalembert,  one  of  the  greatest  French  states 
men,  once  wrote:  "Men  are  surprised  sometimes  by  the 
ease  with  which  the  immense  city  of  London  is  kept  in 
order  by  a  garrison  of  three  small  battalions  and  two 
squadrons,  while  to  control  the  capital  of  France,  which 
is  half  the  size,  40,000  troops  of  the  line  and  60,000 
national  guards  are  necessary.  But  the  stranger  who 
arrives  in  London  on  Sunday  morning,  when  he  sees 
everything  of  commerce  suspended  in  that  gigantic 
capital  in  obedience  to  God;  when  in  the  center  of  that 
colossal  business  he  finds  silence  and  repose,  scarcely 
interrupted  by  the  bells  which  call  to  prayer,  and  the 
immense  crowds  on  their  way  to  church,  then  his  astonish 
ment  ceases.  He  understands  that  there  is  another  curb 
for  a  Christian  people  besides  that  of  bayonets,  and  that 
where  the  law  of  God  is  fulfilled  with  such  a  solemn 
submissiveness,  God  himself,  if  I  dare  use  the  words, 
charges  himself  with  the  police  arrangements." 

But  what  is  the  continental  Sunday?  O  laboring  man, 
toiling  through  six  days  of  the  week,  bearing  your  heavy 
burdens  unrestingly,  take  one  look  at  it  as  portrayed 
by  those  who  have  lived  where  it  exists.  Bremmer,  in 
his  work  entitled  "Excursions  in  Russia,"  thus  portrays 
the  continental  Sabbath  in  that  empire:  "People  are 
everywhere  busy  at  work  in  the  fields  and  the  market 
places,  in  all  the  provincial  towns  are  crowded  the 
peasants,  selling  potatoes,  mushrooms,  apples,  turnips, 
cucumbers,  etc.,  just  as  on  ordinary  week  days."  The 
only  difference,  he  informs  us,  is  that  "there  is  more 
trading,  by  far,  on  the  Sabbath  than  on  any  other  day,  as 
it  is  the  favorite  shopping  day  with  all  classes." 

Ah!  what  a  picture  of  that  blessed  day  of  rest  does 
this  afford  us !  Does  America  long  for  such  a  Sabbath 
as  this?  Are  we  blind  to  the  fact  that  our  Sunday  base 
ball  games,  our  picnics  and  excursions,  our  Sunday 
theatricals  and  balloon  ascensions,  and  all  things  else  that 
strike  at  the  sacredness  of  the  day,  are  but  the  entering 
wedge  of  the  continental  Sabbath,  that  would  take  from 
us  our  American  Sabbath,  with  its  hours  of  sacred  rest, 
its  release  from  all  toil,  its  opportunity  for  moral  cul 
ture  and  enlightenment,  and  its  privileges,  which  place 
the  humblest  laborer  on  the  same  level  with  the  richest 
capitalist  as  a  worshiper  of  the  one  God  and  Father  of 
us  all  in  His  house. 

America  cannot  give  up  her  Sabbath  and  hope  for 
continued  freedom.  Out  of  it  springs  our  sense  of  uni 
versal  brotherhood,  and  the  universal  need  of  divine  help. 
In  it  the  patient  toiler  finds  his  best  time  for  moral  and 
intellectual  culture.  In  it  he  can  answer  the  demands 
of  his  higher  manhood,  enjoy  his  home,  and  be  blessed  by 
the  uplifting  influence  of  his  little  ones.  They  appeal  to 
his  nobler  manhood,  and  as  he  listens  to  their  loving 
prattle  he  feels  the  best  that  there  is  within  him  arise  and 
demand  recognition. 

"The  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man  for 
the  Sabbath,"  says  the  divine  Master,  and  it  does  not 
serve  its  best  purpose  when  it  is  given  to  idle  pleasure. 
The  "blue  Monday"  follows  the  Sabbath  excursion  and 
the  various  kinds  of  Sunday  amusements,  but  where  it 
is  consecrated  as  a  day  of  rest  and  worship,  Monday 
finds  those  who  have  properly  regarded  the  day  refreshed 
and  cheerful  and  ready  for  renewed  toil,  looking  out 
upon  life  more  hopefully  and  better  fitted  for  its  duties. 

"Remember  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy!"  Well 
would  it  be  for  America  if  that  command  were  engraved 
upon  each  heart  of  this  great  people.  To  what  a  glori 
ous  future  might  this  nation  then  look  forward;  to  what 
a  surcease  from  crime;  to  what  decrease  in  poverty;  to 
what  higher  morality  and  better  public  character.  And 


Daughters  of  the  King. 


in  addition  to  all  these  earthly  blessings,  with  what  con 
fidence  might  we  look  forward  to  that  eternal  Sabbath 
in  God's  kingdom  into  which  toil  and  hardship  and  sor 
row  shall  never  enter,  but  where  the  greatness  of  im 
mortal  being  shall  be  unfolded  and  our  life  be  filled  with 
God's  life  and  tne  eternity  of  knowledge  and  gladness. 
Oh,  let  us  "  Remember  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy." 


XXII. 
DAUGHTERS  OF  THE  KING. 

The  work  of  the  Redeemer  was  nearly  done.  The 
great  scheme  of  man's  redemption  was  almost  finished. 
The  agony  of  Gethsemane  and  the  death  upon  Calvary 
were  near  at  hand.  In  an  upper  chamber  at  Jerusalem 
Jesus  had  gathered  his  disciples  to  eat  the  Last  Supper, 
and  when  that  was  ended,  "He  put  water  into  a  basin 
and  began  to  wash  His  disciples'  feet."  But  Simon  Peter, 
His  ardent  yet  impulsive  follower,  protested  against  His 
Lord's  performing  such  menial  service  for  him,  saying, 
"Lord  dost  Thou  wash  my  feet?"  Jesus  answered  and 
said  unto  him,  "What  I  do  thou  knowest  not  now,  but 
thou  shalt  know  hereafter."  Peter  saith  unto  Him: 
"Thou  shall  never  wash  my  feet."  Jesus  answered  him, 
"If  I  wash  thee  not,  thou  "shalt  have  no  part  with  me." 
This  incident  in  the  life  of  our  King  has  its  lesson  for 
us,  and  the  great  truth  to  be  drawn  from  it  is  that  the 
Christian's  life  is  a  life  of  service — one  of  thoughtful- 
ness  and  care  for  the  needs  of  others. 

To  be  a  Christian  is  to  be  like  Christ;  to  be  filled  with 
His  spirit,  and  to  do  the  works  that  He  did;  to  live  as 
He  lived;  and  if  we  study  His  life  we  shall  find  that  its 
whole  grand  story  is  told  in  the  simple  sentence,  "He 
went  about  doing  good." 

Studying  His  life,  we  find  that  it  was  one  of  cease 
less  activity  and  of  unresting  service.  There  was  noth 
ing  which  appealed  to  Him  so  strongly  as  human  need. 
It  always  impelled  Him  to  action;  it  was,  and  is,  the 
mainspring  of  divine  helpfulness.  When  human  help 
lessness  confronted  our  King  He  never  rested  until  He 
had  met  it  with  divine  helpfulness. 

We  can  fancy  Him  as  He  journeyed  through  Pales 
tine,  after  the  fame  of  His  marvelous  works  had  gone 
abroad  among  the  people.  What  a  panorama  of  human 
suffering  there  was  in  the  great  crowds  that  thronged 
Him.  And  did  He  ever  turn  one  away  unhelped?  The 
lame,  the  blind,  the  maimed,  the  leprous,  whosoever  suf 
fered  from  human  ill  or  spiritual  hunger  had  but  to  tell 
their  needs  and  they  were  all  relieved.  The  voice  of  hu 
man  suffering  our  King  was  quick  to  hear,  and  that  He 
might  the  better  help  us  He  became  our  burden-bearer. 

Christ's  test  of  discipleship  is  this:  "By  this  shall 
all  men  know  that  ye  are  my  disciples  if  you  have  love 
one  to  another."  This  spirit  of  earnest  Christian  love 
will  very  quickly  place  us  in  touch  with  humanity  every 
where,  and  there  is  nothing  that  will  so  quicken  us  to 
see  the  work  that  we  should  do  as  this  spirit  of  love 
for  the  race  which  possessed  Christ,  for  love  is  never  in 
different,  never  blind;  it  never  forgets.  Self  is  very 
small  in  love's  eyes,  for  love  always  makes  the  needs  of 
others  paramount  to  its  own.  If  we  would  always  put 
Christ  between  us  and  self  how  quickly  would  the  chains 
of  selfishness  be  loosed  and  our  hands  always  be  ready 
to  help  others.  Looking  upon  Him  who  so  loves  us,  we 
snould  forget  all  selfish  ends  and  our  one  great  thought 
would  be  how  we  might  best  serve  Him  through  helping 
others,  and  like  Him  we  should  go  about  doing  good. 

And  one  of  the  first  truths  that  Christ  inculcated  was 
the  forgiving  love  of  God.  I  am  confident  that  never 
a  day  passed  during  all  the  years  of  Christ's  earthly 


ministry  when  men  did  not  hear  from  His  lips  the  invi 
tations  of  His  love  and  the  assurance  of  God's  readiness 
to  forgive,  or  when  the  hand  of  our  King  was  not  out 
stretched  to  help  the  suffering  and  the  needy,  His  pity 
and  His  all-comprehending  love  were  as  infinite  as  His 
Godhood.  It  embraced  all  sorrow,  all  frailty,  all  human 
want  and  weakness,  and  its  language  ever  was,  "Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  and  I 
will  give  you  rest." 

Therefore  the  fact  that  we  are  the  children  of  a  King 
does  not  imply  that  we  shall  be  served  and  yet  withhold 
ourselves  from  serving.  Instead  of  this,  such  relation 
ship  brings  with  it  responsibility.  If  God  has  freely 
given  us  all  things,  as  His  children,  does  that  gift  im 
pose  upon  us  no  duty  but  that  of  the  selfish  enjoyment 
of  our  own  glorious  hopes  and  anticipations  of  future 
blessedness?  "Heirs  of  God,  and  joint  heirs  with  Christ 
to  a  heavenly  inheritance,"  shall  we  leave  our  Redeemer 
to  bear  alone  the  burden  of  man's  sins,  and  to  carry  on, 
witn  no  active,  living  sympathy  from  His  children,  the 
work  of  the  world's  salvation? 

We  should  ever  bear  in  mind  that  the  more  earnest 
and  active  we  are  in  the  service  of  the  King  the  nearer 
we  shall  come  to  Him,  and  the  more  shall  we  grow  into 
his  image. 

As  King's  Daughters  we  are  a  "sisterhood  of  service," 
and  that  is  our  privilege  of  honor.  And  the  more  we 
serve  the  greater  will  our  love  be.  I  am  filled  every  day 
with  the  sense  of  our  need  of  greater  consecration  and 
willingness  tor  sacrifice.  Here  are  souls  perishing  all 
about  us.  AVhat  shall  we  do  to  awaken  them  to  a  sense 
of  their  need— these  souls  that  Christ  loves  and  for  whom 
He  died?  Is  it  enough  that  the  hope  of  a  glorious  im 
mortality  is  ours?  The  King  was  willing  to  die  for  these 
souls.  Shall  we  not  be  willing  to  ever  tell  them  of  His 
love  and  seek  to  lead  them  to  Him? 

We  should  never  be  willing  to  let  a  day  pass  without 
doing  some  special  earnest  work  for  our  Father.  And  let 
us  always  remember  that  it  is  not  the  (/reatness  of  the 
work  we  do,  but  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  done,  that  He 
considers.  The  story  of  the  widow's  mite  is  for  us.  The 
proud  and  the  rich  who  saw  her  cast  her  offering  into 
the  Lord's  treasury  doubtless  looked  with  scorn  upon  her 
humble  gift,  it  was  such  a  small  pittance,  but  Christ  said, 
"She  hath  cast  in  more  than  the'-  all."  So  He  will  ac 
cept  whatever  we  have  to  bring  if  we  give  it  in  His 
name  and  for  the  love  of  souls.  "Whosoever  giveth  a 
cup  of  water  in  my  name  shall  not  lose  his  reward." 

Let  us  ever  have  that  cup  of  water  in  readiness  for 
thirsty  souls,  and  cry  aloud  to  them,  "Ho,  every  one  that 
thirsteth,  come  ye  to  the  waters." 

O  the  overflowing  springs  of  God's  love!  Let  us  drink 
more  freely  of  them,  and  as  we  drink  consecrate  our 
selves  anew  to  this  life  of  service,  remembering  that  the 
work  our  King  began  He  has  left  for  us  to  finish.  No 
matter  how  slight  the  threads  of  duty  may  seem,  we  must 
not  let  any  one  of  them  drop.  No  duty  is  small;  no  work 
for  the  Master  ends  with  today;  but  down  the  pathway 
of  the  eternal  years  the  influence  of  duty  faithfully  per 
formed  is  felt  forever,  and  its  story  will  never  end.  This 
eternity  of  thought  and  of  action' is  what  makes  life  so 
vast,  so  solemn,  tor  neglected  duty  will  not  alone  con 
front  us  here,  but  it  will  take  a  whole  eternity  to  unfold 
the  results  arising  from  duty  undone.  Time  can  never 
measure  the  extent  of  our  '  influence.  Faithfulness  to 
every  duty,  then,  is  what  we  most  need  to  emulate  in  the 
example  of  the  Master. 

Daughters  of  the  King,  let  us  always  wear  the  white 
raiment  of  charity;  let  us  wrap  ourselves  in  the  mantle 
of  unselfish  devotion;  let  our  feet  be  shod  with  the  san 
dals  of  good  will,  and  our  hands  ever  be  ready  to  give, 
"in  His  name,"  the  cup  of  cold  water  to  thirsty  souls. 


251 


Lay  Sermons. 


XXIII. 

THE  DEFIANT  MOTHER. 

If  a  person  with  no  experimental  knowledge  of  Chris 
tianity  desires  an  example  of  its  sustaining  power  in 
times  of  affliction,  let  him  read  the  book  of  Job.  Nowhere 
in  human  history  will  he  find  the  record  of  more  endur 
ing  heroism  born  of  faith  in  God  than  he  may  find  here. 
Earthly  possessions  all  swept  away;  bereaved  of  his  chil 
dren;  tempted  by  his  wife  "to  curse  God  and  die;"  smit 
ten  with  disease  and  tortured  by  suffering,  he  could  yet 
exclaim,  "What!  shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of 
God,  and  not  receive  evil?  The  Lord  gave  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away,  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord. 
.  .  .  Yea,  though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him." 

0  faith  sublime!  O  trust  that  failed  not  nor  ques 
tioned  the  righteousness  and  the  goodness  of  God!  There 
was  no  spiritual  darkness  there;  no  doubt  of  the  divine 
beneficence;  no  selfish  complaining;  no  plea  for  humanity 
from  evil  on  account  of  his  own  uprightness,  but  a  faith 
born  of  spiritual  knowledge,  that  God  would  do  right, 
and  though  the  dealings  of  His  providence  were  dark, 
yet  he  would  not  question  His  right  to  do  with  him  as 
He  pleased.  He  looked  beyond  the  darkness  of  time  to 
that  eternal  day  when,  standing  face  to  face  with  his 
Maker,  he  would  know  and  understand  what  the  divine 
purpose  had  been,  and  he  believed  that  when  that  was 
made  fully  manifest  he  could  rejoice  and  triumph  in  the 
love  of  God. 

Men  sometimes  need  to  be  taught  just  such  lessons  of 
trust  in  their  Heavenly  Father.  What  virtue  is  there 
in  trusting  God  when  all  is  serene,  and  life  moves  on 
witn  nothing  to  mar  our  hopes  or  to  try  our  faith?  Is  a 
faith  that  is  never  tested  apt  to  grow  strong?  Is  a  love 
that  is  never  tried  as  likely  to  grow  perfect  as  that  which 
is  and  yet  endures? 

There  are  many  ways  in  which  the  trials  and  sorrows 
of  life  are  made  blessings  to  the  children  of  God.  First 
of  all,  they  bring  us  into  closer  relationship  with  Him. 
When  His  hand  is  heavy  upon  us,  then  we  feel  the  need 
of  His  help  and  the  insufficiency  of  earthly  things.  And 
if  we  call  upon  Him  then,  He  draws  near  to  us  by  His 
spirit.  "Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be 
comforted."  There  is  not  a  sorrowing  Christian  but  has 
felt  the  fullness  of  that  comfort  and  the  richness  of  sus 
taining  grace. 

"The  Lord  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,"  and  He  re 
veals  that  love  in  times  of  affliction,  when  life  seems  dark 
and  its  burdens  too  heavy  to  be  borne.  It  is  like  the 
sunlight  which  breaks  through  the  rifts  in  the  dark 
clouds,  full  of  warmth  and  brightness,  telling  of  the 
glory  that  shall  come  when  the  storm  has  passed  and  the 
clouds  all  rolled  away. 

How  near  Christ  came  to  Mary  and  to  Martha  at  the 
grave  of  Lazarus !  What  j  oy  there  must  have  been  in 
the  sense  of  His  tender  and  compassionate  love  when 
"Jesus  wept!"  What  a  sense  of  His  divine  power  and 
goodness  when  the  stone  was  rolled  away  and  His  voice 
was  heard,  saying,  "Lazarus,  come  forth!" 

And  we  need  sorrow  sometimes,  so  that  the  great  stone 
of  unbelief  may«be  rolled  away  from  our  hearts,  and  that 
the  voice  of  His  love  may  reach  our  dull  ears,  bidding 
us  to  come  forth  from  our  worldliness  into  the  light  of 
duty  and  faith  and  worship.  We  need  to  be  made  to 
sit  at  His  feet  and  learn  of  Him  that  we  may  find  rest. 

Once  there  was  a  mother  who  had  a  little  son  full  of 
winning  ways  and  happy  laughter,  who  was  the  delight 
of  her  eyes  and  the  idol  01  her  heart.  He  was  amiable 
and  affectionate  unless  his  strong  will  was  crossed,  and 
then  he  rebelled  and  yielded  to  an  unbridled  temper. 

252 


But  the  mother  saw  no  fault  in  him  and  was  ready  to 
yield  to  his  most  unreasonable  demands.  At  last  the 
little  boy  fell  sick,  and  to  all  appearances  lay  dying  in 
his  mother's  arms.  Then  all  the  rebellious  spirit  in  that 
mother's  heart  was  aroused,  and  she  said  to  the  physi 
cian:  "My  darling  must  die,  you  say?  I  tell  you  he 
shall  not  die.  God  shall  not  take  him  from  me.  He  shall 
live.  He  shall  live!" 

To  the  surprise  of  every  one  the  dying  boy  rallied  and 
his  feet  came  up  from  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  health 
returned.  He  grew  to  manhood,  but  it  was  a  dishonest 
manhood,  stained  by  crime,  and  he  met  his  end  upon  the 
gallows.  "Oh,"  said  the  poor  mother,  "Oh,  that  he  had 
died  when  lie  was  an  innocent  child  in  my  arms!  But  I 
rebelled  against  God's  will,  and  He  gave  me  my  will.  Oh, 
my  son,  my  son !  your  blood  is  upon  my  head.  God 
would  have  taken  you  from  the  evil  to  come,  but  I  would 
not  give  you  up.  I  defied  Him,  and  now  my  sorrow  is 
greater  than  I  can  bear." 

Ah!  God's  ways  are  best!  Let  us  ever  bear  this  in 
mind,  and  let  us  ever  yield  our  wills  to  His  will.  He  does 
not  willingly  grieve  or  afflict  us,  but  He  sees  the  end 
from  the  beginning,  and  when  His  providences  are  dark, 
let  us  remember  that  behind  them  "He  hides  a  smiling 
face."  Then  will  our  trust  grow  and  our  faith  in  God  be 
strong.  Life's  burdens  will  never  be  too  heavy  for  us  to 
bear,  for  the  Lord,  even  our  God,  will  be  our  comforter. 


XXIV. 

"REJOICE!  REJOICE!" 

Does  it  -not  strike  you  as  something  very  strange  that 
there  may  be  found  in  God's  kingdom  such  a  personality 
as  an  unhappy  Christian?  And  yet  there  are  hundreds 
of  them.  Where  does  the  fault  lie"?  Is  it  with  us  or  with 
God?  What  is  our  Heavenly  Father's  word  to  us?  "Re 
joice,  again  I  say  unto  you,  rejoice."  Does  He  mean 
this  when  He  commands  it,  or  is  He  laying  upon  us  a 
command  that  it  is  utterly  impossible  for  us  to  fulfill? 
That  is  not  like  our  Heavenly  Father.  His  commands 
are  always  given  with  a  purpose,  and  with  the  promise 
of  grace  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  obey  them.  Where 
does  the  trouble  lie,  then?  If  not  with  God,  then  it  must 
be  with  ourselves.  If  we  look  into  our  own  hearts  we 
shall  find  it  there,  and  it  is  wrapped  up  and  hidden  in 
the  napkin  of  distrust.  Not  that  the  earnest  Christian 
conscientiously  distrusts  his  Heavenly  Father!  It  would 
shock  him  if  you  should  tell  him  that  he  did,  but  still 
he  does  it. 

Let  us  look  at  the  case  very  carefully.  Here  is  a 
Christian  who  loves  God.  There  is  no  doubt  of  that. 
He  would  not  be  tempted  to  give  up  his  love  for  Christ 
for  the  whole  universe.  But  there  is  something  in  the 
past,  perhaps,  that  he  cannot  forget.  His  whole  lan 
guage  is,  "Oh,  if  I  could  undo  that  past;  could  blot  out 
the  memory  of  the  wrong  that  I  did,  then  I  coulci  be 
happy."  And  all  the  while  the  tender  voice  of  the  Re 
deemer  is  saying,  "I  have  put  thy  transgressions  behind 
me,  and  thy  sins  are  covered;  rejoice  always,  and  again 
I  say  unto  thee,  rejoice!" 

These  mistakes  and  shortcomings  of  ours  teach  us  many 
lessons  which  we  need  to  learn.  First  of  all,  they  bring 
to  us  a  sense  of  our  dependence  upon  God's  grace.  They 
teach  us  how  vain  it  is  to  rely  upon  our  own  strength, 
our  own  righteousness,  and  while  we  sorrow  that  we  have 
erred,  we  should  be  filled  with  rejoicing  that  we  have 
One  who  is  mighty  to  save  and  ready  to  forgive.  Oh, 
if  we  could  only  'learn  to  put  all  our  past  behind  us, 
as  God  does  when  we  turn  to  Him,  and  to  remember 


Easter  Morn. 


only  that  lie  pardons  and  covers  all  of  our  transgressions, 
how  easy  would  it  be  for  us  to  "rejoice  in  the  Lord  al 
ways,"  and  losing  sight  of  the  things  which  are  behind, 
press  forward  and  onward  and  upward  to  a  higher  life. 

Then  another  reason  for  Christian  rejoicing  is  this: 
"we  are  heirs,  joint  heirs  with  Christ,  to  a  heavenly  in 
heritance,"  and  if  we  have  not  so  very  much  of  this 
world's  goods,  we  have  that  "heavenly  inheritance"  await 
ing  us  which  includes  all  good,  all  glory  and  fullness  and 
happiness. 

"Joint  heirs  with  Christ;"  how  can  such  a  one  be  poor? 
Are  not  those  eternal  riches  far  better  than  the  decaying 
wealth  of  time?  Should  we  not  rejoice  forevermore  at 
the  assurance  of  that  heavenly  inheritance? 

Then  another  thing  in  which  the  Christian  should  re 
joice  is  the  assurance  that  when  he  enters  into  that 
heavenly  inheritance  he  will  leave  behind  him  his  sinful 
nature,  all  the  dross  of  earth,  all  his  tendency  to  err. 
That  is  the  great  beauty  of  salvation — our  escape  from 
sin.  It  is  not  escape  from  danger  that  the  Christian 
considers  so  much  as  escape  from  sin.  That  is  the  one 
awful  and  appalling  reality  that  confronts  us  here,  and 
it  is  only  through  God's  grace  that  we  find  any  escape 
from  it.  But  that  opens  a  path  all  luminous  with  His 
love,  all  bright  with  mercy,  through  which  we  may  walk 
and  be  saved. 

And  heaven  may  come  to  us  here  in  doing  God's 
will,  in  following  'in  the  footsteps  of  the  Master  who 
"went  about  doing  good."  What  we  want  is  a  vitalized 
Christianity,  one  instinct  with  love  to  humanity,  such 
as  springs 'from  love  to  God.  Let  us  put  Christ  between 
us  and  all  the  sorrows  and  the  burdens  of  our  life,  cling 
to  His  promises,  walk  in  His  footsteps,  minister  to  the 
needs  of  others,  and  forever  keep  our  ears  open  to  that 
blessed  assurance  that  "all  things  shall  work  together  for 
the  good  of  those  who  love  God;"  and  then  shall  we  be 
able  to  obey  the  command  that  Christ,  our  elder  brother, 
has  laid  upon  us,  "Rejoice;  again  I  say  unto  you,  re 
joice!" 


XXV. 
EASTER  MORN. 

The  centuries  move  onward  down  the  path  of  time,  na 
tions  rise  and  fall,  and  the  memory  of  great  men  grows 
dim  as  the  ages  slip  into  the  dead  past  which  engulfs 
all  things  human.  But  as  precious  to  the  world  today 
as  it  was  almost  nineteen  hundred  years  ago  is  that  im 
mortal  morning  when  the  Conqueror  of  Death  rose  from 
His  stone-hewn  sepulcher  as  the  first  Easter  dawned  upon 
the  world. 

The  great  city  of  Jerusalem  slept.  Its  busy  streets 
were  still  silent.  The  high  priest  and  the  members  of 
the  Sanhedrim  were  hushed  in  slumber,  and  Pontius  Pilate 
lay  undreaming  of  the  gladness  of  that  resurrection 
morning  which  was  breaking  upon  the  surrounding  hill 
tops,  upon  the  temple's  spires  and  the  whole  sleeping 
world.  Perhaps  in  his  troubled  dreams  Pilate  might  still 
have  seen  the  noble  and  untroubled  face  of  the  Christ 
whom  he  had  delivered,  even  against  his  better  judg 
ment,  to  be  crucified,  for  the  sense  of  wrong  must  have 
continually  haunted  him.  "I  find  no  fault  in  him,"  was 
the  language  of  Pilate,  yet  he  gave  him  over  to  the  rabble, 
to  the  Cross — to  cruel  crucifixion.  O  day  of  shame! 
well  might  the  sun  hide  its  head  in  darkness  and  the 
trembling  earth  quake  in  that  moment  of  horror;  and  yet 
there  were  redeeming  features  to  that  hour,  such  as  lifted 


humanity  nearer  God  than  ever  it  had  risen  before. 
Have  we  ever  considered  how  marvelous  was  the  faith 
of  the  thief  upon  the  Cross?  There  was  one  who  claimed 
to  be  divine  and  infinite  in  heaven,  yet  dying  at  the 
hands  of  a  merciless  rabble,  suffering  the  same  condem 
nation  as  the  sinful  malefactor.  Yet  such  was  his 
bearing  that  faith  blossomed  like  a  flower  in  the  breast 
of  the  dying  thief,  and  there  amid  the  agonies  of  death 
his  lifted  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Christ  and  his  lips 
gave  utterance  to  his  dying  prayer:  "Lord,  remember  me 
when  Thou  comest  into  Thy  kingdom."  O  dying  thief!  a 
faith  like  thine  is  sufficient  unto  salvation.  Christ's 
heart  must  have  been  comforted  with  love  like  this.  The 
faith  of  the  Disciples  did  not  die,  though  He  whom  they 
worshiped  was  laid  away  in  the  tomb.  The  doubting 
Thomas  was  there,  it  is  true,  but  Peter  and  Mary  were 
early  at  the  sepulcher.  His  life  had  left  its  '  divine 
impress  upon  them,  and  the  blessed  Master,  they  be 
lieved,  was  mightier  than  Death  and  would  yet  prove  to 
the  world  that  He  had  made  no  false  claims. 

But  still  the  awful  silence  when  He  was  laid  away  in 
that  new-made  sepulcher  with  the  great  stone  rolled 
against  its  mouth.  How  heavily  upon  their  hearts  fell 
the  measured  tread  of  the  sleepless  sentinels!  How  long 
the  hours  of  day  and  night  as  they  passed  in  weary  suc 
cession!  Day  and  night,  day  and  night!  Oh,  anxious, 
listening  ears,  is  there  no  sound  to  be  heard  in  the 
tomb  of  the  Crucified — no  movement  where  He  sleeps? 
Day  and  night  pass  and  the  city  goes  about  its  duties 
and  its  pleasures  unmindful  of 'the  late  tragedy  upon 
Calvary.  Men  laugh  in  careless  mirth,  and  imperial 
Romans  think  only  of  power,  and  dream  of  an  even 
grander  future.  The  sentinel's  tread  is  ceaseless  at  the 
tomb.  The  unbelieving  Jew  would  guard  against  de 
ception  and  would  make  sure  that  none  of  Christ's 
many  disciples  steal  the  body  and  proclaim  to  the  world 
that  their  Lord  had  risen.  But  a  mightier  power  than 
that  of  imperial  Rome  or  Jewish  people  is  there.  The 
dawn  neared  slowly  in  the  purple  east  on  that  first 
day  of  the  week  after  the  Lord  had  died.  The  sun  had 
not  yet  risen  when  from  the  blue  of  heaven  the  angels 
came,  and  with  their  own  hands  rolled  back  the  great 
stone  from  the  door  of  the  tomb.  Back  swung  its 
heavy  weight,  and  into  the  still  morning  walked  the  risen 
Lord.  Then,  fairer  than  the  glory  of  the  approaching 
sun,  shone  man's  hope  of  immortality.  Despair  died 
when  redemption  was  wrought.  Mightier  than  death  or 
sin  was  He  who  died  to  save  a  sinful  world.  Xo  longer 
is  human  hope  clouded,  for  the  risen  Christ  brings  life 
and  immortality  to  light.  Well  may  we  greet  the  day 
with  joy  and  thanksgiving,  for  no  longer  is  death  the 
king  of  terrors;  no  longer  the  grave  a  pathway  of  dark 
ness  and  despair,  but  the  highway  through  whose  portals 
the  Redeemer  passed  before  us,  lighting  all  the  way  with 
the  sun  of  His  love. 

Then  welcome  the  beauty  of  the  Easter  dawn.  Let 
Faith  gather  new  strength  and  Hope  spread  her  pinions 
for  a  nobler  flight.  Life  blossoms  into  larger  meaning 
and  time  leads  on  to  an  eternity  of  joy.  Through  Christ 
eternal  life  is  made  glorious.  All  the  long,  eternal  years 
are  crowned  with  the  brightness  of  immortality.  In  the 
"green  pastures  beside  the  still  waters"  with  this  liv 
ing,  risen  Christ  may  His  children  walk  while  He  unfolds 
to  them  Creation's  wonders  and  the  immensity  of  in 
finite  love. 

"O  Easter  dawn!  the  glory  of  thy  light 
Through  ages  streams;  the  gladdened  earth 
Rejoices  in  hope  of  the  immortal  birth, 

And  heaven's  celestial  shores  burst  on  our  sight." 


253 


Sermons. 


XXVI. 

THE  GRAND  ILIAD  OF  TIME. 

Nature  is,  in  many  ways,  a  powerful  preacher,  far 
more  eloquent  than  human  lips.  If  our  ears  are  properly 
attuned  we  recognize  in  its  various  language  the  voice 
of  God  speaking  to  us  from  tree  and  flower,  from  the 
blade  of  grass,  as  well  as  from  the  mighty  ocean  and 
majestic  uplift  of  mountains.  There  are  certain  phases 
of  Nature  which  reveal  to  us  not  only  the  grandeur  of 
divine  character,  but  its  benevolence  as  well.  They  bring 
us  face  to  face  with  the  manifestation  of  God's  care  for 
us,  His  thought  fulness  for  the  higher  needs  of  man's 
nature.  He  might  have  made  the  world  bare  of  loveliness, 
and  furnished  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  have  answered  only 
the  requirements  of  our  actual  necessities.  But  He  did 
not  do  that.  He  implanted  within  the  human  soul  the 
love  of  beauty,  and  then  with  His  own  hand  He  supplied 
that  which  answers  to  that  love  and  is  thrilled  and 
gladdened  by  it.  When  Moses,  the  servant  of  God, 
standing  amid  the  awful  silence  of  the  desert,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mount  Horeb,  saw  the  burning  busn,  and 
that  it  was  not  consumed,  he  felt  that  God  was  in  that 
place.  So  we  feel  the  presence  of  an  almighty  power 
in  the  sublime  grandeur  of  lofty  mountains,  in  the  voice 
of  the  mighty  cataract  or  the  greatness  of  earth's  encir 
cling  seas. 

There  are  many  chapters  in  the  volume  of  Nature,  each 
of  which  teaches  us  a  different  lesson.  The  chapter  on 
beauty  is  marvelous,  and  is  written  in  the  warm  colors 
of  the  sunset,  in  the  alphabet  of  the  flowers,  in  the 
perfection  of  each  blade  of  grass,  the  different  leaf  of 
each  shrub  and  tree,  the  gleam  of  the  shining  waterfall; 
in  rounded  hills  and  sleeping  vales,  and  in  the  kaleido 
scopic  glory  of  ever-shifting  lights  and  shadows.  But 
the  chapter  on  God's  omnipotence  is  the  grand  Iliad  of 
time.  In  this  State  we  find  it  written  with  an  alphabet 
of  sky-towering  Sierras ;  of  great  cataracts  leaping  thous 
ands  '  of  feet  through  the  shining  air;  in  a  Yosemite 
which  is  the  wonder  of  the  world,  with  its  granite  domes, 
its  cathedral  spires,  and  its  carved  granite  walls  which 
rise  upward  like  a  rocky  firmament.  No  intelligent 
person  can  look  upon  the  wonders  of  that  valley,  cradled 
amid  that  wilderness  of  mountains,  and  yet  believe  that 
it  is  the  work  of  blind  Chance,  for  the  power  of  God 
is  graven  upon  that  eternal  granite,  and  the  voice  of 
Deity  echoes  unceasingly  in  those  waterfalls  that  seem 
dropping  from  the  skies. 

Look  on  those  granite  domes,  lifted  a  mile  upward 
into  the  bending  heavens,  the  far  skies  resting  upon  their 
crests,  and  the  clouds  mantled  about  their  shoulders  when 
the  storm  draws  near.  They  do  not  speak  to  us  of  a 
blind  and  soulless  chance,  "but  of  omnipotent  power. 
They  are  the  eloquent  priests  of  Nature,  whose  voices 
are  never  silenced,  proclaiming  the  infinite  and  immutable 
God.  The  summer  lightnings  play  about  their  crests  with 
forked  tongues  of  flame,  gleaming  like  the  burning  bush 
of  Horeb.  The  pillar  of  cloud  is  above  them,  and  thun 
ders  like  those  of  Sinai  sometimes  make  the  wilderness 
to  tremble. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  sublimity  God's  benevolence 
and  love  for  us  is  seen,  for  He  has  mingled  beauty  such 
as  gladdens  the  heart  with  this  awe-inspiring  grandeur. 
He  has  spanned  the  waterfalls  with  rainbows ;  sown  the 
valley  with  wonderful  wild-flowers;  carpeted  it  with  the 
richest  emerald  and  filled  it  with  the  melody  of  innumer 
able  birds.  Millions  of  bright-winged  butterflies  sport 
in  the  sunlit  air,  and  the  full-rhythmed  voice  of  the 
crystal  river  is  never  hushed.  Fed  by  the  eternal  snows 
of  the  vast  heights  above  it,  its  melodious  flow  is  unceasing, 
and  it  pours  a  full-voiced  anthem  resounding  with 
strength  and  power.  At  sunset  and  sunrise  those  granite 


walls  look  as  if  paved  with  gold  and  precious  stones. 
They  flash  back  the  golden  sunbeams  and  look  like  vast 
altars  of  flame.  Like  modern  Sinais  or  lofty  Horebs, 
they  shine  with  the  light  of  God's  presence,  and  it  would 
not  seem  strange  to  hear  the  command  of  old:  "Take 
thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet,  for  the  place  whereon  thou 
standest  is  holy  ground." 

This  omnipresent,  omnipotent  God  who  rules  the  universe 
is  shadowed  forth  and  revealed  in  all  things.  Even  the 
poor  Indian  sees  His  smile  in  the  sunlight  and  feels  His 
breath  in  the  welcome  summer  breeze.  He  dreams  of 
the  happy  hunting-grounds  beyond  the  shadows  of  Time, 
and  lifts  hopeful  eyes  to  the  shining  sun,  which  shall 
light  his  footsteps  thither.  How  much  more  should  we, 
in  the  clear  light  of  Faith,  look  forward  to  that  rest 
which  remaineth  for  the  people  of  God,  beholding  in  all 
things,  as  we  may,  an  ever-present  Father,  the  God  of 
Nature  and  the  God  of  man,  who  so  cares  for  us  that 
even  the  very  hairs  of  our  heads  are  all  numbered, 
and  not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  without  His 
knowledge. 


XXVII. 

WHEN  HARPS  WERE  HUNG  UPON  THE 
WILLOWS. 

"By  the  rivers  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down,  yea  we 
wept  when  we  remembered  Zion.  We  hanged  our  harps 
upon  the  willows  in  the  midst  thereof.  For  they  that 
carried  us  away  captive  required  of  us  a  song,  and  they 
that  wasted  us 'required  of  us  mirth,  saying,  'Sing  us  one 
of  the  songs  of  Zion.'  How  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's 
song  in  a  strange  land." 

Is  there  anywhere  in  the  English  language  a  more  pa 
thetic  and  forcible  expression  of  homesickness  than  is 
found  in  the  words  above  quoted?  God's  captive  people 
were  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  and  their  hearts,  as 
they  sat  by  these  foreign  streams,  heard  no  melody  in 
flowing  waters.  Their  tinkling  drops,  as  they  swept  on 
in  silvery  cadences,  were  to  them  but  an  undertone  of 
sorrow,  reminding  them  of  the  distance  lying  between 
them  and  their  beloved  Zion.  Oh,  for  the  deep,  full  an 
them  of  Jordan's  waters,  or  the  melody  of  the  brook 
Kedron,  whose  clear  waters  flowed  between  the  holy  city 
and  the  base  of  Olivet.  The  blue  skies  of  the  Holy  Land 
gleamed  fair  within  their  memories.  Their  hearts  held 
the  fragrance  of  its  blossoming  fields  and  the  glory  of 
its  summer  beauty,  and  their  harps  were  untouched  and 
hung  upon  the  bending  willows,  as  they  said  one  to  an 
other:  "How  shall  we  sing  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange 
land?" 

And  we  are  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  and  are 
journeying  to  that  better  country,  if  we  are  Christians, 
where  Our  Father  dwells,  where  are  our  houses  not  made 
with  hands,  to  that  city  which  "hath  no  need  of  the  sun, 
nor  of  the  moon,  for  the  glory  of  God  doth  lighten  it." 

That  better  country!  do  our  hearts  ever  go  out  in  long 
ing  for  its  rest  and  peace  and  sinlessness?  Do  we  wish 
more  of  that  divine  presence  to  illumine  and  brighten 
our  spiritual  lives,  and  make  us  ready  to  see  Our  Father 
face  to  face  in  the  land  where  we  may  dwell  forever  in 
His  presence? 

The  Christian  should  not  be  content  with  this  earth 
life  alone.  He  should  not  regard  this  world  as  his 
home,  but  he  should  forever  keep  in  his  heart  that  love 
for  heaven  that  shall  actuate  all  his  desires  and  kindle 
his  most  blessed  hopes.  The  glory  of  the  ancient  Zion 
and  the  grandeur  of  its  sacred  temple  have  all  departed, 
but  our  Zion  will  not  fade,  nor  its  beauty  vanish.  If  we 
are  led  captive  by  sin,  let  us  turn  our  faces  toward  that 


254 


Humility,  Hope  and  Duty. 


New  Jerusalem,  and  tune  our  hearts  to  fresh  praise.  Then 
will  the  glory  of  that  land  be  wafted  into  our  lives  here. 
Then  may  we  journey  in  gladness  while  the  airs  of  heav 
en  are  borne  to  us,  and  the  clear  vision  of  faith  enables 
us  to  behold  its  walls  and  towers,  and  its  streets  of  gold. 
Then  may  our  heart.-,  be  filled  with  singing  and  our  lips 
with  praise.  "Homeward  Bound,"  is  the  song  which  we 
may  sing,  while  the  chains  of  sinful  captivity  slip  down 
ward,  and  our  hearts  are  made  free  by  the  love  of  God. 


XXVIII. 
HUMILITY,  HOPE  AND  DUTY. 

I  have  been  looking  today  at  the  beauty  of  the  sun 
shine  as  it  touches  the  earth,  gilding  with  its  golden  light 
the  waving  grass,  the  fragrant  flowers  and  the  swaying 
leaves.  The  world  is  made  very  beautiful  by  it,  and  all 
its  charms  are  revealed.  So  is  it  with  God's  love  in  our 
hearts.  Life  is  illuminated  by  it,  our  natures  expand 
under  its  influence,  life  broadens  and  deepens,  and 
through  it  we  take  hold  upon  infinity.  What  is  worthless 
drops  away  from  us  and  what  is  noble  and  grand  be 
comes  a  part  of  our  very  being.  There  is  nothing  worth 
less  that  is  born  of  love.  There  is  nothing  unholy 
that  springs  from  it.  It  is  the  regenerating  power  of  the 
universe,  the  spring  of  all  excellence  and  purity,  the 
source  of  all  good. 

Love  is  without  limitations,  without  self-seeking,  al 
ways  exalting  that  which  it  loves.  As  the  sun  sweeps 
from  the  earth  its  vile  miasmas,  so  love  sweeps  from  our 
hearts  all  the  vileness  of  human  depravity,  and  the 
poisonous  mists  of  sin.  It  lifts  us  out  from  self  into  the 
atmosphere  that  God  breathes,  and  is  the  great  key  that 
unlocks  the  door  of  human  progress.  Without  it  we 
grovel;  with  it  we  take  wings  and  tend  upward,  and 
heavenward. 

It  is  love  which  is  the  soul  of  life;  without  it  we  may 
exist,  but  we  do  not  live.  And  what  is  being  worth  un 
less  it  broadens?  Is  that  life  worth  living  which  em 
braces  nothing  more  than  mere  existence,  without  one  in 
telligent  heart-beat,  one  throb  of  the  soul?  Is  that  life 
worth  living  which  does  not  make  the  world  better  be 
cause  it  has  been  lived,  and  God  himself  richer  in  the 
sum  of  human  goodness?  Ah,  but  you  say,  dear  reader, 
"I  am  poor  and  humble,  the  world  will  not  take  note  of 
what  I  do."  But  do  you  not  remember  that  God  will 
take  note  of  it,  and  that  all  of  right  living  helps  to  swell 
His  treasury  of  human  remembrances?  We  have  read  in 
His  word  of  the  poor  widow  who  cast  into  His  treasure 
the  "two  mites,"  which  God  held  to  be  worth  more  than 
all  the  offerings  of  the  rich,  because  they  were  sanctified 
by  love.  The  great  world  was  dear  to  her  heart  and  she 
longed  to  do  what  she  could  for  its  uplifting,  and  the 
"two  mites"  were  "all  her  living."  What  a  grand,  un 
selfish  nature  was  hers,  and  the  story  will  be  told  to  all 
the  ages.  Love,  infinite  love,  holds  her  higher  than  the 
monarch  upon  his  throne,  and  all  the  eons  of  eternal 
years  will  be  sweeter  for  the  incense  of  her  sacrifice. 

Ah,  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  is  love,  for  it  leads 
us  to  give  the  best  that  we  have  and  are  to  God  and 
the  world. 

It  was  love  to  God,  and  love  for  holiness  that  led  to 
the  self-abasement  of  the  publican,  and  led  him  as  he 
stood  alone  in  the  temple  to  smite  upon  his  breast  and 
cry  aloud,  "God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner."  And  out 
of  that  humility,  that  love  for  the  right,  a  noble  man 
hood  was  born,  and  a  grander  spirituality  evolved,  and 
that  man  went  down  from  the  temple  to  the  daily  duties 
and  cares  of  life  "justified"  with  God. 

This  justification  by  faith  is  another  of  the  fruits  of 
love,  for  there  can  be  no  faith  without  love,  no  taking 


hold  of  God's  promises,  which  are  like  supports  thrown 
across  every  abyss  of  life,  every  hard  place  which  our 
wayward  feet  have  to  tread. 

If  love  is  the  atmosphere  that  we  breathe,  how  life 
brightens  for  us!  When  we  think  of  self  alone,  life  seems 
hard  and  sorrowful,  for  there  is  nothing  that  makes  one 
feel  so  lonely  as  to  stand  face  to  face  with  self  and  dwell 
upon  its  needs  and  longings.  But  if  we  consider  God's 
love  for  us  we  do  not  feel  lonely,  for  it  is  great  enough 
to  fill  our  hearts,  to  satisfy  all  of  our  desires.  Human 
love  is  sweet,  but  still  we  must  have  something  more  than 
that  to  fully  satisfy.  The  immortal  within  us  calls  out 
for  the  immortal.  It  is  not  earth,  but  heaven,  that  can 
satisfy. 

But  the  beautiful  thought  comes  home  to  us  that 
the  path  of  duty,  however  hard,  leads  straight  to 
love  and  happiness.  The  road  is  white  and  shining  at 
the  end,  even  if  it  be  dark  and  thorny  at  the  outset. 
The  lions  in  our  way  are  like  those  which  Christian  saw 
before  the  door  of  the  Interpreter's  house,  without  power 
to  hurt  us.  Love  has  chained  them  and  will  not  let  them 
harm  us.  Even  here  we  may  have  visions  of  the  Delect 
able  Mountains  which  lie  onward  in  our  paths  and  the 
Beulah  Land  we  may  yet  reach.  Let  us  believe  that  God 
is  good,  and  infinite,  and  loving,  and  ready  to  give  us 
all  tilings  if  we  but  trust  Him.  "Like  as  a  father  pitietli 
his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitietli  those  that  fear  Him." 
And  God's  pity  is  tender  and  it  will  make  every  hard 
place  smooth  if  we  but  trust  in  its  infinite  fullness. 

"I  may  not  draw  aside  the  mystic  veil 
That  hides  the  unknown  future  from  my  sight, 
Xor  know  if  for  me  waits  the  dark  or  light, 
But  I  can  trust. 

"I  have  no  power  to  look  across  the  tide, 
To  know  while  here  the  land  beyond  the  river; 
But  this  I  know,  I  shall  be  God's  forever, 
So  I  can  trust." 


XXIX. 
WEALTH  AND  BEAUTY  EVERYWHERE. 

Life  is  full  of  wealth,  and  greatness  and  beauty,  if 
we  only  take  it  in  its  largeness  and  perceive  all  that  it 
holds  for  us.  First,  and  highest  of  all  things,  is  God's 
love  for  us,  reaching  out  into  all  of  our  experiences  if 
we  are  His  children.  Can  you  imagine  God  forgetting 
for  one  moment  the  children  of  His  love?  Did  He  for 
get,  the  thread  of  life  would  snap  and  somewhere  into 
the  vastness  of  the  universe  we  should  slip,  being  blotted 
out  forever.  But  there  is  not  a  moment  of  our  exist 
ence  that  does  not  hold  God's  thought  for  us,  and  that 
is  not  vital  with  His  love. 

And  that  love  of  God  is  more  than  all  things  else.  It 
holds  for  us  joy  and  peace  and  the  perfection  of  beinp. 
Heaven  may  be  here  upon  earth  if  we  have  God's 
presence  and  that  communion  with  Him  which  is  the 
birthright  of  His  children.  "Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee!"  this  should  forever  be  our  prayer,  and 
the  strength  of  our  desire.  And  no  such  longing  will 
be  unanswered,  for  with  it  God's  presence  will  envelop 
us  like  the  atmosphere,  and  His  spirit  will  overshadow 
us,  and  make  the  sunlight  of  our  souls. 

Then  how  much  of  natural  beauty  there  is  in  the  world 
about  us,  and  can  that  soul  grow  'sordid  whose  eyes  are 
open  to  behold  it?  How  many  tongues  it  finds  in  trees, 
how  many  voices  amid  the  flowers.  The  little  blades  of 
grass,  swaying  in  the  soft  summer  breezes,  seem  to  whis 
per,  "God"  is  here;"  the  bird-song  is  full  of  melody  that 
tells  of  heaven.  There  is  nothing  sordid  in  Nature.  She 
is  large-hearted  and  she  is  continually  giving  of  her 
largess  to  those  who  love  her.  The  sun  shines  not  for 


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the  earth  alone,  but  for  you  and  me.  It  shines  that  our 
eyes  may  behold  beauty  and  our  lives  feel  its  nurturing 
warmth  and  light.  The  stars  twinkle  in  the  firmament 
and  reveal  to  us  the  infinity  of  creative  power,  and  from 
these  pages  of  nature  we  learn  lessons  of  humility  and 
of  love.  "When  I  consider  the  heavens,  which  are  the 
work  of  Thy  fingers,  the  moon  and  stars,  which  Thou 
has  ordained,  what  is  man  that  Thou  are  mindful  of 
him,  and  the  Son  of  Man,  that  Thou  visitest  him?"  Then, 
pondering  this,  hear  the  final  and  triumphant  assurance 
of  the  Psalmist:  "Thou  hast  made  him  [man]  a  little 
lower  than  the  angels,  and  crowned  him  with  glory  and 
honor."  But,  remember,  all  these  starry  worlds  shall 
perish,  but  he  shall  still  endure.  There  is  no  death  for 
his  soul  if  he  is  Thine.  O  Father,  Thy  love  crowns  him 
with  immortality;  limitless  life  stretches  before  him,  and 
no  power  can  take  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  knowledge. 
There  is  forever  the  rich  unfoldment  of  God's  power  and 
goodness  for  him  to  study.  He  is  not  a  thing  apart  from 
nature  but  he  stands  at 'the  head  of  the  long  line  of 
created  things,  the  crown  and  glory  of  them  all,  the  in 
telligent  link  between  the  divine  and  the  universe,  which 
He  has  created. 

Situated  thus,  is  not  life  worth  living?  Is  it  not  full 
of  grandeur,  and  may  it  not  be  made  rich  in  all  things 
to  be  desired?  If  life  is  a  failure  is  not  the  fault  ours? 
But  can  any  life  be  a  failure  that  io  hid  in  Christ,  that 
is  inspired  by  love  to  Him  and  blessed  by  His  mercy? 
O  Christian !  never  despair.  Cling  to  the  cross  of 
Christ,  where  all  earth's  burdens  slip  from  us.  Fight 
the  good  fight  of  faith,  and  finish  your  course  with  re 
joicing.  Life  is  good  with  the  love'  of  God  to  cheer  us 
and  with  His  promises  for  our  rest.  Do  your  part  and 
Goa  will  do  His,  and  through  him  you  shall  triumph  over 
all  evil,  and  the  blessedness  of  eternal  being  and  eternal 
peace  and  gladness  shall  be  yours.  Live  near  to  Him 
here,  and  there  you  shall  see  Him  face  to  face  and  your 
life  shall  be  without  a  cloud,  forever  bright  in  the  sun 
light  of  His  forgiving  mercy. 


XXX. 

LEND     A     HAND. 

Grander  than  any  book  that  has  ever  been  written, 
mightier  in  its  influence  for  good,  is  noble,  well-rounded 
character.  The  man  who  possesses  such  a  character  is  a 
man  who  opens  his  eyes  to  the  needs  of  the  age  in  which 
he  lives,  and  who  is  earnest  in  his  efforts  to  help  answer 
those  needs.  One  of  the  most  decisive  duties  required 
of  us  is  that  we  should  serve  our  own  generation.  We 
read  of  David,  in  Acts  xiii,  36:  "For  David,  after  he  had 
served  his  own  generation  by  the  will  of  God,  fell  on 
sleep."  He  did  the  required  work  of  the  time  in  which 
he  lived.  He  did  much  for  his  country  and  for  his  peo 
ple.  He  was  a  man  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  strength, 
and  he  was  called  to  the  throne  at  a  time  when  the  na 
tion  was  waking  up  to  a  sense  of  its  unnumbered  de 
ficiencies.  Intellectually  and  spiritually  what  vast  strides 
forward  it  made  while  he  was  upon  the  throne!  What 
an  uplifting  of  literature  and  poetry!  The  sweetest 
psalms  the  agjs  have  ever  heard  were  penned  by  him, 
and  from  the  influence  of  his  example  and  teachings  came 
to  the  Jewish  people  a  richer  manhood  and  a  better  gov 
ernment. 

And  the  duty  of  every  one  of  us  is  "to  serve  his  own 
generation."  And  how  can  we  do  this?  Not  alone  by 
giving  of  our  wealth  to  the  church  and  the  state,  and  to 
philanthropic  purposes,  but,  first  and  greater  than  this, 
we  must  give  ourselves.  It  has  been  truly  said  that  "the 


most  valuable  thing  a  man  can  bestow  upon  his  age  or 
his  native  land  is  himself,  provided  always  he  is  good  for 
anything.  And  the  best  service  a  man  can  render  his 
church,  or  city,  or  town  is  to  throw  the  light  of  a  fresh, 
God-inspired  personality  upon  it." 

Who  of  us  has  ever  proved  to  the  uttermost  his 
powers?  Who  of  us  has  tested  the  limits  of  his  possi 
bilities,  or  measured  the  extent  of  influence?  Or  who 
of  us  considers  continually  the  fact  that  we  shall  be  held 
responsible  not  only  for  what  we  do,  but  for  that  which 
we  might  do  and  yet  do  not? 

How  many  of  us  realize  the  solemnity  of  living?  We 
talk  of  the  solemnity  of  death,  but  there  is  nothing  to 
be  dreaded  in  dying  if  we  have  lived  right.  It  is  right 
living  that  determines  for  us  a  happy  future,  and  death 
is  but  the  open  door  for  us  then  to  a  better  tomorrow. 
What  our  life  here  is  for,  is  to  serve  God  and  humanity. 
We  want  to  serve  our  own  generation,  and  through  it  all 
coming  ones.  We  must  strive  to  help  others  climb  the 
lofty  Pisgahs  of  high  purposes  and  of  earnest  devo 
tion  to  duty.  The  work  of  our  lives  is  not  done  when 
we  have  made  ourselves  comfortable,  improved  the  op 
portunities  for  our  own  advancement  and  won  for  our 
selves  high  place  and  position,  if  meanwhile  we  have  kept 
ourselves  aloof  from  others'  needs,  and  failed  in  helping 
to  benefit  society  and  the  world.  No  one  can  live  unto 
himself  and  yet  be  true  to  himself  and  his  obligations. 

The  cry  of  this  age,  as  of  every  age,  is  for  men, 
earnest,  Christ-like  men  and  women  ready  for  the  Cross, 
ready  for  self  sacrifice,  and  full  of  brotherly  good-will. 
We  stand  face  to  face  today  with  a  sorrowing,  care- 
burdened  world.  Persecution  is  abroad;  want  and  need 
and  destitution  confront  us,  tyranny  has  laid  its  iron 
heel  upon  the  necks  of  thousands,  and  shall  we  sit  su 
pinely  down,  caring  only  for  our  own  pleasure  and  in 
different  to  the  work  which  we  might  do  for  others. 

What  the  world  needs  today  is  more  earnest  consecra 
tion  and  stronger  purposes.  God  wants  every  one  of  us 
to  "  serve  his  generation,"  and  He  will  help  us  to  do  it 
if  we  are  ready.  What  the  age  requires  today  is  an 
army  of  cheerful,  willing  Christians. 

Said  an  earnest,  thoughtful  Christian  to  me  once,  "I 
don't  believe  that  sad  men  can  aid  in  converting  this 
world,  and  I  don't  believe  that  frivolous  men  can  do  it.  I 
think  some  persons  have  a  sort  of  gayety  because  they 
don't  think,  because  they  have  never  grasped  life's 
mighty  issues,  nor  heard  sounding  in  the  chambers  of 
thought  the  solemn  peals  of  time."  What  we  do  need 
is  a  cheerfulness  like  the  apostles  in  their  prison  cell  at 
Philippi,  born  of  trust  in  God,  of  faith  in  His  purposes 
and  of  strong  Christian  courage  and  determination.  A 
divine  cheerfulness,  the  outgrowth  of  holy  purpose,  and 
the  sense  of  Christ's  nearness. 

With  such  trust  and  faith  in  God  this  generation 
would  come  off  conquerors  and  more  than  conquerors 
through  Him  who  hath  loved  us.  Let  every  child  of 
God  do  his  whole  duty  in  serving  his  generation,  and  so 
powerful  would  be  the  influence  of  such  lives  that  wars 
would  cease,  persecutions  would  have  an  end,  and  God's 
kingdom  would  speedily  come. 

Let  no  one,  however  humble,  refuse  to  serve  his  gen 
eration,  and  excuse  himself  by  saying,  "  I  have  nothing 
that  I  can  do." 


"  '  Nothing  to  do,'  thou  Christian  soul ! 
Wrapping  thee  round  in  thy  selfish  state, 
Off  with  the  garments  of  sloth  and  sin; 
Christ,  thy  Lord,  hath  a  kingdom  to  win. 
'Nothing  to  do!'     There  are  prayers  to  lay 
On  the  altar  of  incense  day  by  day; 
There  are  foes  to  meet  within  and  without ; 


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There  is  error  to  conquer  strong  and  stout. 
'Nothing  to  do!'     There  are  minds  to  teach 
The  simplest  forms  of  Christian  speech; 
There  are  hearts  to  lure  with  loving  wiles, 
From  the  grimmest  haunts  of  sin's  defile. 
'Nothing  to  do!'  and  thy  Savior  said 
'Follow  thou  me  in  the  path  I  tread!' 
Lord  lend  Thy  help  the  journey  through 
Lest  faint  we  cry,  'so  much  to  do!'" 


XXXI. 

THE    TRIALS   OF    LIFE. 

Why  is  it  that  the  future  life— that  endless  life  of  the 
soul— takes  so  little  hold  upon  our  thoughts  and  affec 
tions?  The  life  which  we  now  live  is  merely  prelimi 
nary  to  the  great  hereafter  that  is  to  roll  on  through  the 
eternal  years,  grand  in  its  infinity,  great  and  joyous, 
if  we  are  Christ's  because  through  it  all  we  shall  be 
growing  into  His  image,  with  an  ever-enlarging  capacity 
for  happiness. 

Life  here  has  its  trials  and  its  limitations.  It  em 
braces  more  of  the  human  than  of  the  divine  in  its 
characteristics,  but  the  divine  is  slumbering  within,  lying 
dormant  and  wakened  sometimes  only  through  sorrow. 
I  always  look  now  for  the  shining  garments  which  sorrow 
wears  underneath  her  black  robes,  and  when  I  see  them 
then  how  quickly  does  her  frowning  visage  change  to  one 
of  tender  smiles  and  pity.  Sorrow  is  God's  most  faithful 
messenger  to  us,  and  she  holds  the  key  to  His  tenderest 
love  and  care  for  us,  and  behind  her  I  ever  hear  His 
gracious  voice  saying,  "My  child  has  wandered  from  me 
down  the  paths  of  pleasure  and  of  sin,  and  Sorrow  only 
can  bring  him  to  feel  his  need  of  me,  and  so  I  send  her 
that  she  may  bring  back  my  wanderers  into  the  fold." 

Are  you  grievously  afflicted,  and  can  you  see  no  bright 
ness  for  your  tears,  hear  the  voice  of  the  Pitying  One 
saying,  "I  will  never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee." 

"The  way  is  dark,  my  child,  but  leads  to  light; 
I  would  not  always  have  thee  walk  by  sight; 
My  dealings  now  thou  canst  not  understand, 
I  meant  it  so,  but  I  will  take  thy  hand, 

And  through  the  gloom 

Lead  safely  home 
My  child ! 

"  The  path  is  rough,  my  child !     But,  oh,  how  sweet 
Will  be  the  rest  for  weary  pilgrims'  feet, 
When  thou  slialt  reach  the  borders  of  that  land 
To  which  I  lead  thee,  as  I  take  thy  hand, 

And  safe  and  blest 

With  me  shall  rest, 
My  child! 

"The  cross  is  heavy,  child!     Yet  there  was  One 
Who  bore  a  heavier  one  for  thee;  My  Son, 
My  Well  Beloved.     For  Him  bear  thine,  and  stand 
With  Him  at  last,  and  from  thy  Father's  hand, 

Thy  cross  laid  down, 

Receive  a  crown, 
My  child !" 

Our  Father!  It  is  that  thought  which  helps  us  to 
walk  trustingly  on  through  the  hard  places  of  life,  know 
ing  that  He  is  with  us,  and  that  all  our  burdens  He  gives 
us  to  bear,  that  we  grow  stronger  in  our  faith  in  Him, 
and  feel  more  deeply  our  need  of  being  led  by  His  hand. 
Earthly  pleasure  never  leads  us  to  look  up;  it  never 
leads  to  that  grand  development  of  the  soul  which  makes 
the  child  of  God  Christlike  and  strong,  heroic  in  his  pur 


poses,  and  unselfish  in  his  aims.  The  diamond  has  to 
be  ground  and  cut  and  polished  before  its  true  beauty 
appears,  and  so  God  has  to  work  with  His  children 
before  the  genuine  beauty  of  Christian  character  is 
made  manifest,  and  all  our  burdens  are  but  tokens  of 
that  love  which  would  bring  us  nearer  to  itself  and  make 
us  meet  for  our  heavenly  inheritance,  and  beautiful  in 
His  sight.  Let  us  dwell  more  upon  the  life  to  come — 
that  life  free  from  sin,  from  sorrow,  and  which  is  one 
of  constant  expansion  and  growth.  All  the  fullness  of 
infinite  life  will  be  open  to  us  there,  and  the  companion 
ship  of  our  Father  and  Redeemer.  That  life  will  be  love 
with  all  its  sacred  fervor  and  its  unselfish  delights.  It 
will  be  constant  advancement  and  the  unfoldment  of  all 
the  powers  of  the  soul.  All  the  wide  realms  of  knowl 
edge  will  be  open  to  us;  all  the  blessed  companionship  of 
saints  and  angels;  all  fear  of  sin  and  of  death  will  have 
forever  vanished,  and  we  shall  drink  of  the  fullness  of 

j°y- 

With  all  this  before  the  Christian,  may  he  not  well  be 
patient  for  a  little  time  with  the  ills  of  earth.  Let  us 
puc  Christ  between  us  and  our  sorrows,  and  the  shining 
of  His  face  will  rob  them  of  their  gloom.  Let  us  listen 
to  His  voice  as  He  says: 

"  The  day  goes    fast,  my  child !  But  is  the  night 
Darker  to  me  than  day?     In  me  is  light! 
Keep  close  to  me  and  every  spectral  band 
Of  fears  shall  vanish.     I  will  take  thy  hand, 

And  through  the  night 

Lead  up  to  light, 
My  child. 

"  The  way  is  long,  my  child !     But  it  shall  be 

Not  one  step  longer*  than  is  best  for  thee; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  at  last,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

Safe  at  the  goal,  how  I  did  take  thy  hand 

And  quick  and  straight 

Lead  to  heaven's  gate, 
My  child!" 


XXXII. 

CLOSER    TO    CHRIST. 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life."  Down  the  long 
ages,  wrapped  in  the  silence  of  the  past,  do  these  glori 
ous  words  come  to  us  from  the  lips  of  our  Redeemer,  our 
loving  and  waiting  Savior,  to  cheer  us  when  we  shrink 
from  the  thought  of  death  and  the  grave,  and  then  we 
feel  that  if  we  love  Him,  as  surely  as  He  lives  shall 
we  live,  and  that  He  will  clothe  us  with  immortal  glad 
ness  and  beauty.  Then  it  is  that  death  loses  its  terrors; 
for  we  do  not  look  upon  it  as  the  end  of  life,  but  rather 
as  the  entrance  way  to  a  better  life  that  shall  have  no 

How  much  there  is  in  the  glad  gospel  of  Christ  that 
brings  Him  near  to  us,  that  makes  our  souls  feel  in  full 
est  touch  with  Him,  and  feel  assured  that  He  does  not 
stand  apart  from  us.  We  feel,  as  we  read  His  words, 
tnat  we  have  His  sympathy,  His  tender  and  comprehend 
ing  love,  and  that"  He  never  forgets  us.  The  sense  of 
loneliness  slips  from  our  lives,  and  we  never  feel  that  we 
walk  alone. 

Thus  knowing  Christ  and  loving  Him,  the  feeling  of 
strangeness  and  unreality,  which  many  have,  of  the  life 
beyond,  slips  from  us,  and  we  look  forward  to  death  as 
to  a  home-going,  where  we  shall  find  our  best  friend — He 
who  has  redeemed  us  from  sin,  and  made  us  heirs  with 
Him  to  a  heavenly  inheritance. 

How  many  there  are  who  pray  to  God  as  to  some  one 
afar  off.  I  heard  a  poor  soul  say  the  other  day,  "Oh,  I 
want  to  be  saved,  I  want  to  live  for  Christ,  but  He 


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seems  so  far  away  I  cannot  realize  that  He  hears  me;  I 
cannot  form  any  conception  of  God  such  as  enables  me 
to  pray  to  Him  understandingly." 

Dear  friend,  take  home  to  your  heart  just  this  one 
truth,  and  do  not  try  to  go  any  further  just  now: 
"God  is  Love."  Isn't  that  enough?  Is  not  love  always 
ready  to  hear,  always  ready  to  bless?  Is  not  love  tender 
and  forgiving?  Is  not  love  always  ready  to  take  us  to 
its  great  heart  and  wrap  our  lives  round  with  joy,  and 
hope,  and  blessings?  Need  we  ever  be  afraid  of  love, 
or  shrink  from  it?  With  our  lives  filled  with  it,  how  can 
they  be  other  than  glad?  This  is  the  God  we  want — the 
God  who  is  love.  We  need  not  try  to  comprehend  any 
thing  more  of  the  character  than  this  when  we  go  to 
Him,  but  in  our  daily  companionship  with  Him,  He 
will  reveal  Himself  more  fully  to  us  as  a  God  of  justice 
and  of  mercy,  and  of  infinite  power.  Blest  is  that  soul 
who  sees  in  Him.  "Our  Father."  Where  our  Father 
is  we  do  not  hesitate  to  go,  for  it  is  home. 

It  is  death  that  takes  us  home  into  His  immediate,  vis 
ible  presence,  but  we  may  be  at  home  with  Him  here, 
for  He  is  ready  to  dwell  in  our  hearts,  and  though  our 
earthly  eyes  may  not  behold  Him,  we  may  feel  His  pres 
ence  and  know  that  He  is  near,  and  at  all  times,  in  the 
midst  of  sorrow  and  of  trial,  and  all  the  changing  scenes 
of  life,  we  may  hear  His  voice  saying,  "It  is  I;  be  not 
afraid." 


Walking  with  Christ— this  it  is  which  makes  life 
beautiful  and  glad,  which  takes  away  the  sting  of  death 
and  fills  us  with  undying  hope  and  joy.  Read  your 
Bibles  and  you  will  find  Christ  there  revealed  in  charac 
ters  of  light.  Always  ready  to  help  the  needy;  never 
turning  from  the  sinner,  and  often  raising  the  dead, 
bringing  joy  again  to  houses  of  mourning  and  sorrow, 
and  forgiving  sins.  And,  remember,  dear  reader,  that 
this  Christ  is  our  Christ,  "the  same  yesterday,  today  and 
forever."  Accept  Him  and  you  will  find  joy  even  in 
sorrow,  and  in  death,  life  everlasting. 

"We  cannot  see  our  Lord  unless  we  die; 
This  mortal  must  take  immortality. 
To  his  own  heaven  He  has  gone  away, 
But  bade  us  follow  thither  day  by  day. 

"One  moment!  then  shall  I  be  changed  and  see 
My  Lord,  turning  with  love  to  look  on  me? 
Now  sinful,  all  afraid,  with  vision  dim. 
Shall  I  awake  in  heaven  beholding  him? 

"Ye  angels!  roll  for  me  the  stone  away, 
My  sepulcher  hath  light  and  joy  today. 
His  spirit  softly  whispers,  passing  by, 
Ye  cannot  see  your  Lord  unless  ye  die." 


258 


THE  SAUNTERER. 


WE  have  had  a  touch  of  hot  summer  weather,  .and 
—yes,  I  must  confess  it— Los  Angelenos  have 
been  guilty  of  the  undignified  act  of  perspir 
ing  just  like  the  common  herd  of  humanity.     But  before 
we   forgot    what   was   ours   by   right   of   climatic   inheri 
tance,  the  hot  wave  drew  off,  fans  were  relegated  to  their 
proper  places  among  our  unused  relics  of  the  past,  and 
smiles  and  refreshing  coolness  took  the  place  of  frowns 
and    anathemas    at    the    unusual    state    of    things,    and 
Southern  California  was  herself  again. 

But  there  is  one  thing,  O  army  of  now  defunct  grum 
blers  !  that  I  wish  to  call  your  attention  to.  There  was 
mercy  mingled  with  our  discomfort,  for  even  on  those 
days  when  the  noonday  sun  blazed  hottest  the  heat  could 
not  hold  the  land  in  its  hot  grasp  throughout  the  night. 
At  4  o'clock  the  quivering  heat  died.  Cool,  delicious 
breezes  began  to  creep  in  from  the  sea,  and  the  whole 
heated  world  felt  the  thrill  of  their  coming.  The  mer 
cury  clambered  down  swiftly  from  the  highest  nail  on 
which  the  thermometer  was  hung  to  a  point  that  we 
could  reach  with  the  easiest,  softest  breathing,  and  it 
clasped  hands  with  rest  and  comfort.  And  the  nights- 
how  full  of  balm  and  fragrance,  of  soft,  unheated,  de 
licious  air!  Slumber  found  us  without  trouble.  There 
was  no  weary  tossing,  no  perspiring  restlessness,  no  oven- 
like  rooms  filled  with  burnt-out  air,  but  our  chambers 
were  cool,  the  night  air  purified  in  Nature's  vast  alembic 
and  made  fit  to  minister  to  our  comfort. 

With  such  a  state  of  things  we  are  inexcusable  if  we 
permit  ourselves  to  grumble  at  a  few  hours  of  midday 
heat,  such  as  has  recently  visited  us,  when  the  ther 
mometer  dared  to  climb  up  amid  the  nineties,  and  toy 
with  them  as  if  they  were  really  at  home  at  such  ail 
unnatural  elevation  and  with  such  figures.  Like  every 
thing  else  that  rears  itself  above  its  proper  sphere,  it 
had  to  have  a  fall,  and  now  it  is  down,  down  where  the 
cool  little  sea  breezes  linger  and  men  are  ready  to  talk 
of  the  "best  climate  that  God  ever  made,"  and  let  their 
hearts  bubble  over  with  thankfulness  that  their  lot  is  cast 
in  a  land  like  this,  where  the  climate  generally  lets  you 
alone  and  you  feel  that  simply  to  be  is  bliss. 

Nature  had  a  little  bit  of  by-play  all  her  own  way 
on  Monday  evening,  and  so  unusual  was  it  with  us  here 
that  we  enjoyed  it  like  some  grand  drama,  marvelous 
and  strange,  in  which  is  the  soul  of  some  great  master 
mind  which  seeks  expression  through  it  in  words  of  fire. 
As  night  drew  on,  light,  filmy  clouds  gathered  in  the 
north  and  east  above  the  high  mountain  crests.  Then 
all  at  once  came  flashes  of  fire.  Heat  lightning  stirred 
the  soft  waves,  and  from  north  to  south  flashed  the  bright 
radiance.  It  was  like  an  ethereal  pulse-beat,  and  little 
children  all  unused  to  the  lightning  flash  looked  on  in 
strange  surprise.  "Oh,  mamma,"  exclaimed  one  little 
tot  as  she  sat,  clasped  in  her  mother's  arms,  upon  the 
wide  veranda,  "Oh,  mamma,  did  God  wink  his  eyes?" 

The  Chamber  of  Commerce  rooms  are  a  good  place  for 
us  to  take  our  visitors,  for  there  we  find  a  full  epitome 
of  Southern  California  productions.  It  is  gratifying  to 


our  pride  to  witness  the  number  of  exclamation  points 
our  eastern  visitors  require  in  order  to  give  vent  to  their 
surprise  at  what  confronts  them  there. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  one  of  them  on  Monday  who  was 
"doing"  the  rooms,  "you  can  grow  anything  here  that 
is  grown  anywnere  in  the  world,  can't  you?  And  I 
never  dreamed  that  oranges  and  pears  grew  so  big,  and 
olives — black  olives — I  never  saw  any  before,  and  such 
pumpkins !  I'll  believe  now  the  story  of  4  Peter,  Peter, 
pumpkin-eater,'  for  surely  any  woman  could  hide  away 
in  a  pumpkin  as  big  as  that.  It's  a  revelation  to  come 
in  here,  not  only  of  this  productive  upper  world,  out  of 
that  great  under  world  beneath  the  water.  What  beauti 
ful  shells — they  are  from  Catalina,  you  say — can  I  buy 
any  of  these  anywhere  to  take  home  with  me?  Such 
wonderful  colors — I  must  have  some,  for  we  find  nothing 
like  them  at  home.  And  the  palms — how  beautiful  they 
are!  Oh,  Southern  California  is  a  lovely  land,  and  I 
want  to  come  back  and  make  my  home  here,  some  time." 
Thus  talked  one  of  the  ladies*  of  Chairman  Hooker's 
party.  California  was  so  novel  to  her.  "  I  can  hardly 
realize  that  I  am  in  my  own  country,"  she  said,  "every 
thing  here  is  so  different." 

"Yes,  but  the  greatest  glory  of  it  all,"  said  The  Saun- 
terer,  "  is  that  over  us,  as  over  you,  waves  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  the  glorious  banner  of  the  free." 
*     #     * 

The  city  is  donning  its  fiesta  colors,  and  we  shall 
soon  be  ready  for  our  grand  yearly  carnival.  Life 
wakens  afresh  and  pulses  along  our  streets,  and  throbs 
tuimiltuously  along  the  pave.  Kverything  is  awhirl,  and 
our  hearts  are  in  keeping  with  the  brightness  of  the 
season,  and  bud  and  blossom  are  in  league  with  us  to 
make  all  things  lovely. 

What  a  cosmopolitan  city  we  are!  Pass  along  our 
streets  and  you  would  think  that  the  world  had  emptied 
itself  into  them.  Never  a  chance  is  there  for  us  to  be 
provincial,  for  we  touch  shoulders  with  people  from 
every  land  and  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe. 

I  could  but  notice,  as  I  was  out  one  day  last  week, 
how  true  it  is  that  extremes  meet  in  this  world  of  ours. 
I  saw  a  daintily-dressed  little  girl,  clad  in  soft  and  silken 
stuffs,  frilled  with  choice  laces  and  bright-colored  rib 
bons,  herself  as  dainty  as  the  opening  rose.  She  was  a 
child  of  fortune,  and  costly  was  the  pretty  ring  that 
flashed  in  the  sunlight  from  her  white  and  dimpled  fin 
ger.  But  she  was  a  willful  daughter  of  fortune,  and 
was  full  of  discontent  and  waywardness,  if  her  will  was 
crossed. 

That  same  afternoon  I  sauntered  out  into  the  fields, 
where  I  saw  four  happy  boys  in  an  old  wagon,  the  bot 
tom  of  which  was  covered  with  sweet-smelling  grass, 
which  they  had  plucked  from  the  hillside.  They  were 
dressed  in  cotton  trousers,  which  came  only  to  their 
knees.  Feet  and  limbs  were  bare  below  them,  and  the 
sun  had  browned  them,  and  their  clothes  were  old  and 
worn,  but  never  a  happier  group  did  my  eyes  light  upon. 
Their  laughter  was  in  tune  with  the  running  stream,  and 
their  happy  faces  were  as  bright  as  the  mellow  sun 
shine.  It  did  me  good  to  see  them,  and  to  read  the 
content  which  was  written  upon  their  faces. 


HOUSE  AND  HOME. 


THERE  is  nothing  more  suggestive  of  the  "whited 
sepulcher"  than  houses  with  unbroken,  white 
walls,  every  room  spotless  and  staring  at  its 
inmates  with  that  dead,  blank  whiteness  that  chills,  while 
it  is  suggestive  of  loneliness  and  vacancy.  I  am  glad 
that  the  furore  for  hard  finish  and  kalsomined  walls 
is  giving  place  to  the  beautiful  decorative  work,  which,  of 
itself,  is  a  picture  that  pleases  the  eye  and  delights  our 
esthetic  sense.  I  have,  now  and  then,  seen  walls  which  were 
as  attractive  as  paintings — which  were  really  works  of  fine 
art,  never  trying  to  the  eye,  and  against  which  pictures 
stood  out  with  all  their  several  points  made  prominent  by 
the  fitting  and  appropriate  background.  When  it  is  pos 
sible,  those  whose  lives  are  largely  spent  at  home  should 
have  the  most  attractive  surroundings.  The  little  home- 
world  should  be  made  to  expand  into  beauty,  and  it 
should  have  the  charm  of  variety.  With  the  story  of 
every  work  of  real  art  within  its  walls,  the  child  should 
be  made  familiar.  Through  the  Madonnas  he  should 
become  acquainted  with  Raphael  and  Leonardo,  with 
Perugino  and  Bernardino  Luini.  Through  statuary 
should  be  taught  to  the  child  the  history  of  sculpture. 
The  names  of  the  great  masters  should  be  familiar  to  him. 
The  history  of  the  ages  of  art  is  told  in  stone.  What 
vast  distance  lies  between  the  period  when  a  Graeco- 
Roman  school  of  sculpture  was  founded  and  the  age 
when  Michael  Angelo  lived  and  wrought  into  marble 
the  suggestion  of  the  Infinite;  between  the  rude  paintings 
of  primitive  art  and  the  glorious  conceptions  of  the 
great  masters;  between  the  humble  alphabet  of  art  and 
the  grand  forms,  the  tragedies  and  the  histories  traced 
by  the  brush  in  the  hands  of  the  world's  renowned 
painters!  Every  noble  statue,  every  truthful  painting 
has  an  educating  power  over  the  mind  of  the  child  who 
is  trained  to  interpret  its  meaning.  Of  the  roof  of  the 
Sistine  Chapel  at  Rome  one  of  the  most  learned  men  in 
Europe  said:  "I  have  spent  thirty  years  in  studying  it." 
The  figures  painted  there  are  not  mere  outline  and  color, 
but  the  "mothers  of  ideas,  the  embodiment  of  eternal 
beings."  They  are  voiceful  of  intelligence,  and  seem 
ready  to  cry  out  with  human  lips. 

Among  the  fine  statuary  of  today  which  we  find  in 
many  homes  is  the  well-known  "Rogers  statuary."  In 
many  of  these  you  find,  told  in  the  mute  yet  powerful 
eloquence  of  attitude  and  expression,  some  of  the  most 
pathetic  stories  of  the  War  of  the  Rebellion.  Xo  in 
telligent  child  looking  at  these  but  would  imagine  their 
meaning.  They  would  be  to  him  a  most  interesting  text 
book  of  history.  How  freely  in  these,  too,  are  told  the 
idyll  of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  long  slumber  and  the  wonder 
of  his  waking!  Would  the  child  forget  that  story  after 
reading  it,  not  only  in  written  words,  but  from  the 
historic  marble? 

A  person  in  these  days,  when  really  fine  works  of  art 
are  multiplied  by  so  many  processes,  can  gather  to 
gether,  without  a  very  extravagant  outlay,  a  choice  col 
lection  of  pictures  for  the  home.  Photography  has  done 
much  for  art  lovers,  and  one  can  look  upon  the  world  as 
it  is,  and  upon  the  duplicates  ot  the  masterpieces  of 
sculpture  and  architecture  through  the  eye  of  the  stereo 
scope.  Steel  engravings  and  chromos  supply  pictures 
that  are  secondary  only  to  the  best  productions  of  the 
easel,  and  our  walls  may  be  made  attractive  with  these, 
and  full  of  the  lessons  of  beauty  and  of  story.  I  have 
a  picture — a  fine,  large  engraving — that  speaks  to  me  as 
eloquently  as  the  simple  story  in  the  gospel  of  the  great 
tragedy  of  the  Crucifixion.'  It  is  a  copy  of  Dante's 
work,  ""Christ  Leaving  the  Praetorium."  The  whole 
story  of  the  mockery  of  that  trial  before  Pilate,  of  the 
triumph  of  his  accusers,  of  the  divine  forbearance  and 
pity  of  the  godlike  sufferer,  stands  out  in  the  picture 
like  a  living  reality  of  today.  You  forget  the  ages  that 
have  rolled  away  since  the  scenes  were  enacted;  forget 
that  perhaps  today  the  winds  of  the  Orient  are  busy  with 


the  ashes  of  the  great  throng  who  witnessed  the  expiring 
agonies  of  Calvary,  and  you  face  them  as  if  you  were  of 
and  with  them,  waiting  for  the  end. 

Into  your  homes,  then,  where  your  children's  lives  are 
to  be  moulded,  where  they  are  to  be  educated  and  trained 
for  a  life  of  usefulness,  bring  the  beautiful  in  art,  in 
poetry  and  song.  Let  the  home-life  broaden  until  with 
in  its  atmosphere  whatever  is  best,  purest  and  most  sacred 
shall  enter  to  glorify  it. 

Outside  of  pictures  there  are  a  thousand  simple  ways 
suggested  by  an  educated  taste  in  which  the  home  may 
be  embellished  and  beautified.  Beauty  is  not  always 
expensive,  and  often  costs  hardly  more  than  the  free 
sunshine  or  the  glory  of  the  flower  and  tree.  Let  me 
suggest  a  few  simple  ornaments  for  the  home  that  cost 
but  little,  yet  add  to  its  attractiveness. 

An  ingenious  way  to  make  a  pair  of  vases  appear  to 
be  larger  tnan  they  really  are  is  to  get  two  blocks  of 
wood,  in  size  and  shape  about  like  a  quart  bowl,  leav 
ing  a  space  large  enough  to  set  the  vase  in  and  have  a 
little  margin;  cover  them  with  plush  and  put  one  at  each 
end  of  the  mantle.  Curious  vases  of  bronze  and  brass 
show  to  good  advantage  on  these  little  pedestals.  The 
vase  must  be  large  enough  to  give  an  impression  of 
strength  and  safety.  A  round  piece  of  plush  may  be  used 
to  cover  them,  laying  it  in  plaits  where  it  is  necessary. 

A  handsome  umbrella-stand  can  be  made  from  three 
feet  of  terra-cotta  pipe,  eight  to  twelve  inches  in  diame 
ter.  This  should  oe  set  upon  a  turned  wooden  stand, 
which  is  to  be  painted  the  same  color,  or  on  a  brass 
plate.  The  latter  would,  perhaps,  be  more  effective.  The 
stand  should  be  painted  with  varnish,  in  colors  to  suit 
the  taste  of  the  decorator.  A  stork  and  a  palm  tree,  a 
marsh  or  water  scene  with  a  frog  leaping  across,  or  a 
duck  flying  through  the  reeds  on  a  river  bank,  are  sug 
gestions. 

A  silk  handkerchief  can  be  so  arranged  as  to  make 
one  of  the  daintiest  of  work  bags  for  holding  crochet  or 
knitting.  One  of  pale  blue  or  pink  brocade  is  the  pret 
tiest  for  the  purpose.  Lay  the  handkerchief  out  flat, 
turn  over  to  the  inside  a  small  portion  of  each  corner, 
and  hem  each  one  down  with  silk  to  match.  About  two 
inches  from  the  edge,  all  the  way  round,  sew,  as  a  cast 
ing,  a  ribbon  half  an  inch  wide,  and  through  this  run 
drawing  strings  of  narrower  ribbon,  the  same  color. 
Trim  the  edge  all  round  with  a  fine  lace  two  or  three 
inches  wide.  The  work  is  placed  in  the  middle  of  the 
bag  and  the  strings  drawn  to  gather  the  bag,  thus  mak 
ing  the  lace  ruffle  at  the  top.  It  will  be  found  much  more 
convenient  than  any  other  bag,  and  remarkably  pretty. 

An  open  grate  adds  nothing  to  the  attractiveness  of 
the  sitting-room  in  the  summer,  and  it  is  a  positive  an 
noyance  if  it  is  closed  by  the  unsightly,  black  cover;  it 
may  have  instead  of  this  a  pretty  Japanese  parasol  for 
a  cover,  or  a  small  screen  made  of  a  large  round  fan, 
with  the  handle  cut  off,  with  the  exception  of  an  inch  or 
two,  which  should  be  glued  into  an  opening  in  a  small 
block  of  wood.  This  block  may  be  bronzed  or  painted. 
If  you  care  to  make  a  very  handsome  screen  the  fan 
may  be  used  for  a  foundation  simply,  and  it  may  have  a 
silk  and  velvet  cover  upon  which  a  great  deal  of  effective 
ornamentation  may  be  lavished.  If  you  choose,  some 
other  shape  rather  than  round  may  be  used. 

Panels  that  are  very  effective  may  be  made  out  of  the 
delicately  tinted  pictures,  which  are  something  of  the 
nature  of  decalcomaine,  transferred  onto  crepe.  A  beau 
tiful  panel  recently  seen  has  two  outside  pieces  of 
blue  plush  ten  inches  long  and  three  wide,  with  lower 
ends  pointed  and  finished  by  a  gilt  horse-shoe  with 
hanging  bells  of  chenille.  The  center  of  the  panel  is  a 
piece  of  rose-colored  crepe  four  inches  wide,  headed  at 
the  top  by  a  piece  of  plush  like  the  outer  strips.  Upon 
the  crepe  a  suitable  picture  has  been  carefully  trans 
ferred.  The  lining  is  stiff,  white  muslin,  and  the  lower 

260 


House  and  Home. 


edge  is  finished  by  a  row  of  silver  fringe.  A  similar 
panel  with  a  decorated  center  replaced  by  a  strip  of 
satin  harmonizing  with  the  plush,  can  be  made  upon 
millinet,  or  even  thin  cardboard  foundation,  and  made 
to  serve  a  useful  as  well  as  ornamental  purpose  by  se 
curing  at  the  back  three  or  four  sheets  of  blotting  paper, 
which  must  be  several  inches  shorter  and  narrower  than 
the  outside. 


II. 

The  condition  of  a  housekeeper's  linen  closet  is  held  by 
many  to  be  the  test  of  her  housekeeping.  And  there  is 
surely  no  one  thing  that  tends  so  much  to  a  sense  of  com 
fort  and  completeness  and  pleasant  living  as  a  full  supply 
of  napery  and  bed  linen.  Of  course  there  are  many  peo 
ple  who  have  not  been  trained  to  appreciate  the  value  of 
such  things.  What  money  they  have  to  spend,  if  the 
supply  is  not  large,  they  prefer  to  invest  in  something 
that  will  make  more  display.  They  do  not  appreciate 
the  inherent  beauty  there  is  in  fine  linen,  nor  its  educat 
ing  influence  in  matters  of  taste  and  of  beauty.  There  is 
a  suggestion  of  easy  competency  and  of  cleanliness  in 
the  abundance  of  the  linen  closet.  What  is  more  in 
viting,  when  one  is  weary,  than  the  clean  bed  made  up 
with  fresh  linen  with  just  the  faintest  tint  of  perfume 


lingering  about  it— the  odor  of  lavender  or  violet?  It 
awakens  a  certain  sense  of  delicate  refinement  and  purity 
such  as  is  not  apt  to  be  associated  with  coarse  and  illy- 
laundered  cotton  bedding.  Of  course  we  all  know  that 
the  finest  and  best  linens  come  from  Ireland,  but  there 
are  excellent  articles  in  German  linen,  the  weight  and 

Duality  of  which  is  superior  to  anything  found  in  the 
rish  linens  for  the  same  money.  For  table  linen  a  very 
popular  article  just  now  among  those  who  cannot  afford 
the  finest  Irish  damask  for  daily  use,  is  the  half-bleached 
Scotch  linen,  which  is  very  durable  and  comes  in  pretty 
patterns  and  designs.  This  linen  is  from  fifty  to  sixty 
inches  in  width,  and  at  our  best  houses  may  be  bought 
for  fifty  cents  per  yard,  a  wonderfully  satisfactory  price 
when  we  take  into  consideration  its  width  and  good  quality. 
I  chanced  in  at  a  friend's  house  the  other  day  just 
at  lunch  time.  The  table  was  spread  with  the  daintiest 
damask,  white  French  china  lay  like  snowflakes  on  the 
linen,  the  glass  was  of  the  best,"  and  sparkled  like  frost 
work.  There  was  no  display  of  silver,  aside  from 
knives,  forks  and  spoons,  yet  the  table,  with  its  pure 
linen  damask  cover,  glass  and  china,  was  charmingly  in 
viting  and  appetizing.  One  could  not  fail  of  having 
a  good  appetite  to  sit  down  at  such  a  table  if  possessed 
of  any  degree  of  health  at  all.  The  manner  in  which 
food  is  placed  before  us,  as  we  are  all  aware,  has  a  vast 
bearing  both  upon  appetite  and  digestion. 


261 


OUR  BOYS  AND  GIRLS. 


DID  you  ever  wonder,  like  me,  what  the  birds  are 
saying  when  they  sing?    I  have  often  wished  that 
I  could  understand  their  language.     Their  song 
is  so  full  of  sweetness  that  I  think  it  must  be  full  of  love 
and  gladness. 

Shall  I  tell  you  the  story  of  a  little  humming-bird  who 
once  built  his  nest  so  near  that  I  could  look  down  into 
it  from  my  chamber  window?  He  was  a  beautiful  bird 
with  a  coat  of  dazzling  color,  and  I  could  hear  him  hum 
ming  about  in  the  early  morning  sunshine.  One  day 
there  came  up  a  heavy  shower.  The  raindrops  fell,  the 
bird  seized  a  leaf  in  his  bill  and  flew  with  it  to  his  nest. 
Then  he  spread  it  over  its  top  and  in  some  way  fastened 
it  down.  After  the  shower  I  reached  out  and  looked 
into  the  nest,  and  there  it  was  as  dry  and  snug  as  my 
own  chamber,  for  not  a  drop  of  rain  had  fallen  into  it. 
Don't  you  wish  we  could  slip  a  roof  onto  our  houses  as 
quickly  as  the  bird  did? 

I  was  thinking  this  morning  of  the  little  babies  that  I 
used  to  see  way  up  in  the  Pribylov  Isles  of  the  Bering 
Sea.  They  were  queer  little  black-eyed  babies,  with  high 
cheek-bones,  and  eyes  that  seemed  to  have  been  tipped 
up  edgewise.  All  the  little  babies  there  nave  wonderfully 
big  names.  There  are  no  little  Gracies  nor  Marys,  no 
little  Doras  nor  Mabels  in  those  islands,  but  there  are 
little  Paraskeevies,  Faoklas  and  Oosteenies  among  the 
girls,  and  Osceps,  Alexayes  and  Lukayleans  among  the 
boys. 

But  the  way  the  natives  fix  up  those  little  babies  would 
make  you  very  sorry  for  them.  For  six  months  they 
are  swathed  in  wide'  bandages,  which  are  wound  round 
and  round  their  little  bodies  and  their  legs  till  they  feel 
like  small  logs  of  wood  when  you  lift  them.  They  can 
not  crow  and  toss  their  feet* in  delight  as  our  pretty 
babies  do,  for  they  are  bound  up  so  tight  they  can 
scarcely  move  at  all.  This  is  done  to  make  them  straight, 
but  they  are  no  straighter  than  the  boy  and  girl  babies 
we  see  in  our  own  homes  and  who  are  left  free  to  grow 
ana  toss  their  little  limbs  about  just  as  they  please. 
Those  people  had  no  cradles  for  their  babies,  but  when 
they  cried  or  were  sleepy  I  have  seen  their  mothers 
sit  down  on  the  floor,  stretch  out  their  limbs  straight 
before  them  and  lay  their  babies  upon  their  knees,  and 
by  a  slight  motion,  which  somewhat  resembled  rocking, 
roll  their  babies  back  and  forth  until  they  fell  asleep. 
I  have  seen  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  mothers  sit  down 
on  the  church  floor  at  one  time  to  "rock"  their  crying 
infants.  Poor  little  ones!  I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  them, 
for  the  church  was  cold  and  there  were  no  seats  for 
mother  or  baby.  The  mothers  used  to  stand  through  the 
long  service  with  their  children  in  their  arms  if  they 
did  not  cry,  but  if  they  did,  down  mother  and  baby 
would  go  on  the  floor,  and  generally  the  little  one  would 
go  to  sleep. 

That  is  better  than  babies  are  treated  away  up  in 
Swedish  and  Norwegian  Lapland.  There  the  poor  little 
swaddled  things  are  put  into  a  hole  just  outside  of 
church  and  buried  in  the  snow,  in  which  only  a  little 
opening  is  left,  one  large  enough  to  give  them  air  to 
breathe,  while  their  parents  go  inside  the  cold  church  to 
worship.  The  babies  are  warm  and  comfortable  enough 
here,  and  they  are  bound  up  so  stiffly  that  they  cannot 
wiggle  about  and  get  lost  in  the  snow.  But  I  am  sure 
American  babies  would  object  very  loudly  to  being 
treated  in  this  way,  and  I  think  that  their  parents  would 
not  hear  much  of  the  sermon  on  account  of  their  cries. 

What  a  difference  there  is  in  the  people  who  live  in 
different  countries.  And  how  different  they  look,  too. 


Some  are  white,  some  black,  some  brown,  and  some  are 
yellow.  Some  have  long,  straight  black  hair;  others  are 
almost  all  of  them  light  and  flaxen  haired,  while  the 
poor  negro  has  woolly  locks,  twisted  into  tight  curls.  All 
the  causes  which  produce  this  difference  we  do  not  under 
stand,  though  I  suppose  that  climate,  food  and  modes 
of  life  have  much  to  do  with  it. 

It  is  pleasant  to  visit  different  lands  and  to  study 
different  people.  We  can  learn  much  in  this  way,  but 
I  am  sure  when  we  return  to  our  own  country,  if  we 
should  go  abroad,  we  should  feel  that  no  land  was  fairer, 
and  none  more  to  be  desired  than  this  land  over  which 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  wave  as  the  glorious  banner  of 
Freedom. 


I  was  out  in  the  woods  one  day  when  I  came  across 
a  charming  house-builder.  His  house  was  done  and  he 
was  near  by,  looking  at  it  with  what  I  regarded  as  a 
most  contented  air.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  dressed 
in  the  gayest  of  suits,  and  as  clean  and  trim  as  if  he 
had  never  done  an  hour's  work  in  his  life.  His  coat 
was  of  green  and  gold,  and  his  vest  of  the  loveliest 
crimson.  He  was  humming  a  happy  song,  and  gliding 
about  as  if  he  was  too  happy  to  be  still.  Pretty  soon 
I  saw  him  taking  his  breakfast,  and  such  a  breakfast 
as  it  was — I  am  sure  it  was  fit  for  a  king,  and  he  ate 
it  with  all  the  grace  that  a  king  could  have  used.  I  sat 
and  watched  him  and  thought  that  I  should  like  to  get 
a  taste  of  his  sweets,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  be  aware 
of  my  presence,  and  so  his  breakfast  was  taken  alone. 
But  he  appeared  to  be  perfectly  content  without  com 
pany,  and  I  really  do  not  think  that  he  knew  what  it 
was  to  be  lonely. 

Do  you  wonder  who  my  happy  house-builder  was,  who 
looked  so  gay  about  his  work?  He  was  not  a  dude 
with  all  of  his  finery,  for  his  dress,  bright  as  it  was, 
seemed  the  most  proper  thing  for  him  to  wear,  and  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  should  have  known  him  in  any 
other  dress. 

Well,  I  will  tell  you  his  name.  It  was  Master  Hum- 
ming-Bird,  who  lives  on  the  flowers.  One  would  think 
he  never  was  still  when  he  is  not  in  his  nest.  It  is 
very  rarely  that  you  see  him  sitting  quietly  on  a  branch 
like  other  birds.  He  does  not  even  rest  while  he  is 
taking  his  breakfast,  but  he  puts  his  long  bill  into  a 
flower  and  supports  himself  by  his  fluttering  wings.  He 
hardly  seems  to  fly  like  other  birds,  but  shoots  like  an 
arrow  with  a  sudden  start  from  blossom  to  blossom. 

Well,  as  I  told  you,  I  came  across  his  nest  one  morning. 
I  had  never  seen  one  before,  and  I  looked  at  it  very 
curiously.  It  is  the  very  smallest  nest  that  is  made  by 
any  bird.  Mr.  Humming-Bird  is  not  ambitious  to  have 
a  bigger  house  than  he  needs,  and  he  is  content  to 
build  it  just  as  his  grandfather  did  before  him.  No 
bay-windows  or  verandas  does  he  deem  necessary  for 
these  modern  days,  but  he  builds  his  round  nest  and 
makes  it  soft  and  warm  inside  with  down  and  other 
things.  The  outside  he  generally  covers  with  moss  which 
he  gathers  from  the  trees  or  fences.  I  wonder  if  he 
has  any  fear  that  the  boys  may  discover  his  nest?  What 
made  me  think  that  he  might  have  is  that  he  is  very 
careful  to  make  it  of  nearly  the  same  color  as  the  bark 
of  the  branch  on  which  it  is  built,  so  that  unless  you 
look  closely  you  would  hardly  be  likely  to  observe  it  at  all. 

It  distresses  me  to  see  boys  who  are  fond  of  robbing 
birds'  nests.  The  birds  do  so  much  to  gladden  the  world 
with  their  beauty  and  their  song,  we  ought  never  to  molest 
them. 


262 


LIGHTS  AND  FLASHES. 


IF  it  were  not  for  the  darkness  we  should  know  noth 
ing  of  the  stars.  Night  reveals  immensity  of 
space,  while  day  curtains  it  from  our  sight. 

Never  teach  anything  which  you  fail  to  practice. 
Precept  without  example  is  the  cart  before  the  horse. 

There  is  not  another  such  inveterate  bugbear  and 
mischief-maker  in  the  whole  social  world  as  irresponsible, 
unreliable  "They  Say." 

There  is  nothing  so  destructive  to  true  dignity  and 
self-respect  as  the  habit  of  constantly  watching  for 
slights,  and  the  indulgence  of  petty  resentments  for 
trifling  impertinences. 

Human  hopes  are  like  wild-flowers,  God-given  and 
free.  They  redeem  life  from  barrenness,  and  glorify 
its  darkness  of  sorrow  as  do  night's  moon  and  stars 
earth's  sunless  dark. 

Sunlight  at  the  East  fills  the  air  on  its  cloudless  days, 
but  it  docs  not  flood  it  as  it  does  here.  It  seems  as  if 
the  very  earth  were  gladder  here  than  on  our  far  At 
lantic  borders. 

It  is  well,  if  possible,  to  form  the  habit  of  courageous 
battling  with  whatever  is  adverse  to  our  hopes,  aims 
and  pursuits.  Look  at  obstacles  only  long  enough  to 
properly  estimate  them,  then  give  attention  to  the  de 
vising  of  some  method  to  surmount  them. 

"Isn't  that  God  a-coming  down?"  inquired  a  little  tot 
the  other  day  as  she  heard  the  thunder  reverberating 
among  the  distant  mountains.  How  near  to  God  is  the 
child's  thought,  and  in  the  mysteries  of  earth  it  sees 
Him. 

A  man  will  work  as  hard  to  obtain  office  as  a  woman 
will  to  get  a  new  shirt  waist. 

The  evils  of  life  grow  as  we  dwell  upon  them.  What 
really  are  slight  obstacles,  easily  surmounted  with  a  de 
termined  will  to  back  us,  grow  into  gigantic  barriers  if  we 
look  at  them  shrinkingly  and  with  fear.  There  is  no 
force  in  Nature  more  potent  than  will  force.  It  is  the 
power  that  moves  the  universe. 

Self  is  a  terrible  idol  to  worship,  for  stunted  affec 
tions  and  neglect  of  the  needs  of  others  are  the  sure  re 
sult  of  such  idolatry. 

Aim  always  to  do  right  and  then  never  trouble  your 
self  about  what  the  world  says  of  you. 

It  is  the  earth's  resurrection  time  here  in  California, 
and  the  springing  grasses  are  an  emerald  song  writ  by 
the  fingers  of  the  sun  and  rain,  and  there  is  added  a  per 
fumed  interlude  of  flowers. 

People  about  us  take  their  color  a  good  deal  from  the 
thoughts  which  we  cherish  regarding  them.  If  we  are 
always  suspicious  of  evil  in  them  we  shall  always  find 
more  or  less  in  our  intercourse  with  the  world  for  these 
suspicions  to  feed  upon. 

Our  weather  croakers  are  learning  that  it  does  not 
pay  to  take  the  anxious  seat  too  early.  It  is  a  great 
deal  better  to  cultivate  hopefulness  and  learn  to  wait. 
Nature  is  not  prone  to  disappoint  us  here  in  this  land 
of  rich  soil  and  sunshine.  The  rains  have  not  forgotten 
to  fall,  nor  the  grasses  failed  to  remember  how  to  weave 
their  garments  of  green.  So  let  us  be  glad. 


There  is  no  power  that  is  so  able  to  aid  us  to  win  suc 
cess  in  this  life  as  the  spirit  of  dogged  determination. 
It  is  unresting,  earnest,  sure,  and  nothing  but  death  can 
come  between  it  and  the  goal  of  our  ambition. 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  a  precious  darling  the  other  day  us 
she  stood  delightedly  by  a  bed  of  glowing  pansies,  "I 
do  think  there  is  a  little  girl  in  this  flower,  for  don't  you 
see  her  smile?"  Beautiful  flower,  she  found  in  it  a  soul. 

Life  is  about  what  we  make  it.  Man  is  the  carver  of 
his  own  destiny,  and  Providence  is  always  ready  to 
help  those  who  strive  to  help  themselves.  It  is  only  the 
idle  and  worthless  who  lay  blame  for  what  they  are 
upon  society. 

Nature  with  us  here  lies  now  in  a  state  of  expectancy, 
waiting,  not  as  at  the  East,  for  death,  but  for  life — a 
royal  springtime  in  the  heart  of  winter. 

It  is  not  years  alone  which  make  old  age.  It  is  the 
letting  of  life's  burdens  press  upon  you.  He  who  fights 
manfully  is  never  weak.  He  who  is  buoyant  with  hope 
and  inspired  by  a  strong,  steady  purpose,  is  never  feeble, 
never  old.  There  need  be  no  old  age  for  the  spirit, 
no  infirmity  of  years  for  the  heart. 

We  cannot  step  into  greatness  or  perfect  happiness 
all  at  once.  Discipline  comes  first,  and  patient  struggles, 
and  unceasing  endeavor.  Always,  all  through  life,  the 
Cross  before  the  Crown. 

In  the  lesson  taught  by  contrasts  there  is  an  infinity 
of  meaning,  and  from  them  we  may  learn  to  subdue,  as 
well  as  much  to  impel  us  to  nobler  efforts. 

Human  nature  is  everywhere  the  same,  and  the  chil 
dren  of  enlightened  peoples  are,  in  their  natural  ten 
dencies,  but  "whitewashed  savages." 

"Give  me  the  Bible  and  Shakespeare,"  some  one  has 
said,  "and  you  give  me  a  valuable  library."  These  two 
contain  an  epitome  of  all  the  most  valuable  knowledge 
the  world  possesses.  There  is  no  height  nor  no  depth 
that  is  not  touched  by  them.  They  are  the  keys  which 
unlock  the  mysteries  of  all  being  and  which  enable  us 
to  probe  the  profoundest  depths  of  human  feeling. 

America  has  begun  to  be,  what  she  yet  will  be  in  the 
future  in  a  larger,  fuller  sense,  the  teacher  of  the  race. 
She  has  taught  the  world  the  lesson  which  monarchs 
tremble  to  have  to  learn — the  invincible  power  of  a  na 
tion  whose  people  are  its  king,  and  she  has  only  to  show 
that  she  knows  how  to  use  the  grand  triumph  which  she 
has  achieved  over  a  foreign  foe  to  give  to  republicanism 
a  prestige  among  the  nations  that  a  century  of  pro 
longed  peace  and  prosperity  alone  would  never  have 
secured. 

There  is  no  philosophy  like  that  of  a  good,  consistent 
life.  It  is  more  powerful  for  conviction  than  logic; 
more  forcible  and  persuasive  than  eloquence,  and  more 
harmonious  than  song.  Doubt  never  voices  itself  in  its 
presence,  and  the  world  never  questions  its  truth. 

I  wonder  if  we  do  not  all  have  a  God,  who  is  in  some 
measure  the  creation  of  our  own  minds?  How  far  can 
we  form  the  idea  of  the  infinite  and  incomprehensible 
without  in  some  measure  ascribing  to  Him  attributes 
which  spring  alone  from  our  own  individual  mentality? 


263 


THE   AUTHOR. 


HER    CHARACTER,    PERSONALITY,    CAREER,    LIFE    WORK    AND    DEATH.  — NOTES 

ON    THIS    VOLUME. 


IT  is  a  proud  and  a  grateful  task  that  I  have 
undertaken  —  joyous,  albeit  sad  —  this  work 
of  assembling,  grouping  and  editing  the  con 
tents  of  the  present  volume. 

From  the  great  mass  of  rich  material  pro 
duced  by  Mrs.  Otis  in  the  course  of  her  long  and 
active  literary  life,  covering  well-nigh  the  third 
of  a  century,  the  poems  and  prose  appearing 
between  these  covers  have  been  chosen.  Dur 
ing  that  period  she  impressed  herself  deeply, 
through  her  facile  pen,  upon  the  public  mind, 
heart  and  conscience. 

A  loving  and  conscientious  effort  has  been 
made  by  the  compiler  and  the  publishers  to  clothe 
these  writings  in  a  dress  worthy  of  them.  The 
result  is  before  a  critical  public.  But  even  had 
these  children  of  her  immortal  thought  been 
clothed  in  typographical  rags,  they  would  still 
be  glorious  in  their  strength  and  beauty.  The 
real  honor  belongs  to  the  author  —  to  her  from 
whose  brain  and  heart  and  soul  came  the 
nobly-expressed  and  uplifting  thoughts  now 
spread  anew  upon  these  pages.  She  reared  with 
her  own  brain  and  hands  a  noble  monument  to 
herself.  The  most  that  the  compiler  has  been 
able  to  do  is  to  reverently  perform  his  part  of 
the  delicate  task  with  what  judgment,  skill  and 
care  he  could  command. 

The  versatile  quality  and  wide  range  of  the 
writings  of  Mrs.  Otis  are  indicated  in  some 
degree  by  the  table  of  contents,  even  though  it 
gives  only  the  main  divisions,  or  groupings, 
under  which  the  matter  is  presented.  Follow 
ing  the  several  division  heads  will  be  found  the 
particular  titles  of  the  poems  or  prose  articles. 

The  illustrations  are  not  numerous,  but  are 
designed  to  be  appropriate,  and  in  some  degree 
historic,  rather  than  merely  new. 

The  scope  of  the  author's  broad  mind  is 
notably  shown  in  this  book.  Her  work  ranges 
from  noble  verse  descriptive  of  fruitful  plains, 
vast  forests,  mighty  mountain  gorges  and  for 
bidding  deserts,  to  sweet  songs  in  lighter  vein, 
telling  of  rippling  waters,  bird-song,  lilting 
grasses  and  the  laughter  of  innocent  children, 


whom  she  loved  so  much ;  from  luminous  word- 
pictures  describing  wild  scenes  in  frost-bound 
Arctic  regions  to  flowing  stanzas  on  the  climatic 
allurements  of  the  sensuous  South;  from  gentle 
child-verse,  repeating  those  old,  familiar  stories, 
ever  sweet,  ever  new,  which  so  delight  the  hearts 
of  the  young,  to  the  discussion  of  practical 
domestic  topics  treated  over  the  nom  de  plume 
of  "  Susan  Sunshine,"  and  the  cheering  up  of 
tired  housewives  and  the  faint-hearted  in  all 
places ;  from  majestic  lines,  radiant  with  patriotic 
ardor,  paying  lofty  tribute  to  valor  and  greatness, 
and  reciting  the  splendid  story  of  the  Nation  and 
the  Flag  in  the  strenuous  times  of  war,  to  the 
gentle  lays  of  peace ;  from  dignified  editorials  and 
impressive  lay  sermons  to  melodious  snatches  of 
song ;  from  graphic  narrative  in  prose  and 
poetry,  describing  the  all-compelling  march  of 
Westward  Empire,  to  the  unique  story  of  old 
Mission  days  in  California ;  from  unnumbered 
patriotic  memories  clustering  about  the  Nation's 
Capital  to  mystic  Memnon  and  historic  Mex 
ico  ;  from  illuminated  Cloud's  Rest  in  our  own 
Yosemite  Valley  to  sky-reaching  Mount  San 
Antonio  and  far-famed  Popocatepetl ;  from  New 
England's  childhood  days  to  the  verge  of  the 
Great  Beyond,  seen  at  last  through  waiting  eyes 
from  these  sunset  shores. 

Her  style  was  her  own ;  it  was  not  an  imitative 
style  in  any  sense.  She  wrote  almost  invariably 
in  an  optimistic  vein.  Her  strong  and  gentle 
heart  was  animated  by  high  courage,  hope  and 
faith,  buoyed  up,  even  under  the  stress  of  en 
vironment,  fatigue  and  illness,  by  a  perennial 
cheerfulness  —  by  supreme  endurance,  by  a  beau 
tiful  devotion  to  family,  home  and  country,  and 
by  a  spirit  of  unselfish  sacrifice  to  duty  as  she 
saw  it,  at  all  times  and  everywhere.  She  was 
the  incarnation  of  love  and  loyalty.  She  had 
a  gracious  personality  and  a  joyous  nature. 

She  loved  the  Master  and  followed  His  foot 
steps  throughout  her  long  and  useful  life  with 
such  trust  and  steadfastness  as  made  her  a  woman 
among  women.  And  yet  she  loved  the  things 
of  earth  in  a  healthful  and  rational  way,  and 


264 


IN    1903. 


Personal  Sketch. 


was  wont  to  exclaim,  with  enthusiasm,  "  This 
is  a  beautiful  world!"  always  regarding  her 
brief  earth-life  as  but  the  beginning  of  that 
life  which  knows  neither  years,  centuries 
nor  eons  of  time. 

With  all  her  literary  industry  —  her  devotion 
to  books,  to  history  and  literature,  to  poetry,  art 
and  music  —  Mrs.  Otis  showed  in  her  daily  life, 
first  of  all,  the  essential  qualities  of  a  good  wife, 
mother,  friend,  companion  and  neighbor  She- 
was  all  of  these,  and  more.  She  was  a  patriot, 
an  ardent  lover  of  her  great  country,  and  of 
California,  her  chosen  home  for  twenty-eight 
years.  She  knew  the  Republic  when  it  was 
passing  through  the  fiery  crucible  of  Civil  War, 
and  saw  it  emerge  triumphant.  She  was  no 
stranger  to  camp,  battlefield  or  army  hospital ; 
and  I,  her  husband,  who  had  the  honor  to  march 
under  the  Nation's  flag  in  those  pregnant  and 
puissant  days,  and  thirty-three  years  later  under 
the  same  standard  in  the  Orient,  proudly  and 
gratefully  acknowledge  her  quick  sympathy  and 
priceless  support. 

By  a  host  of  citizens,  including  elders,  juniors 
and  all  who  knew  her  in  life,  and  many  who 
knew  her  only  through  her  prolific  pen,  is  her 
death  deplored.  I  cannot  even  undertake  here 
to  give  expression  to  my  own  personal  loss,  or 
to  the  loss  of  the  surviving  members  of  my 
family.* 

After  a  long,  sweet,  useful  life,  punctuated 
by  countless  good  deeds,  she  lay  down  in  the 
sun-swathed  "  Bivouac  " —  the  home  she  loved 
so  well  —  and  died.  Her  bier  was  flower- 
crowned  and  beautiful ;  her  speaking  face  looked 
as  in  life ;  scores  of  tear-flooded  eyes  looked  upon 
it  for  the  last  time ;  and  she  was  laid  under  the 
sweet  sod  of  Hollywood,  where  she  rests  well. 

It  is  not  inappropriate  for  me  to  quote  here 
what  I  said  of  the  lost  one  to  my  journalistic 
and  business  associates  upon  the  occasion  of  our 
recent  annual  meeting  in  October,  1905: 

A  sad  duty  falls  upon  me.  Death  has  made  a 
gap  in  The  Times  phalanx.  I  must  record  here 
the  passing,  during  the  year  covered  by  this 
report,  of  one  of  our  choicest  spirits.  The  last 
call  from  the  mysterious  realms  came  to  Mrs. 

*  The  children  of  Mrs.  Otis  are:  Mrs.  Lilian  Otis-Mc- 
Pherron  of  Hollywood;  Mrs.  Marian  Otis-Chandler  and 
Mrs.  Mabel  Otis-Booth  of  Los  Angeles. 


Eliza  A.  Otis  on  the  I2th  day  of  November,  1904. 
She  passed  over  to  the  Other  Shore  after  a  long 
life  marked  by  good  deeds,  gracious  acts  and 
endearing  relationships,  deeply  mourned  by  her 
family  and  friends,  by  her  associates  in  this  jour 
nal,  and  by  thousands  of  its  readers,  many  of 
whom  never  knew  her  in  her  lifetime,  but 
admired  her  because  of  the  superb  pen-work  that 
she  did.  For  twenty-two  years  she  had  stood 
with  us  in  the  line  of  love  and  duty.  She 
wrought  arduously  for  the  upbuilding  of  The 
Times,  which  she  loved  for  itself  and  served  with 
affectionate  enthusiasm  —  served  faithfully,  ably 
and  well,  and  for  its  distinct  benefit.  She  was 
an  owner,  and  had  been  a  director  in  the  Com 
pany,  and  a  member  of  the  editorial  staff  from 
the  beginning.  A  writer  of  recognized  grace  and 
power,  she  dealt  masterfully  with  great  ques 
tions  —  questions  of  home,  country,  patriotism 
and  humanity.  She  was  also  a  well-known 
descriptive  prose  writer,  wielding  a  facile  pen 
and  commanding  a  graphic  and  luminous  style. 
Mrs.  Otis  was  perhaps  best  known  as  a  writer 
of  noble  verse,  widely  recognized  as  of  a  high 
order.  She  possessed  the  soul  of  a  poet,  and 
loved  to  sing  the  songs  which,  as  a  faithful 
servant  of  the  Master  and  an  ardent  lover  of 
Nature,  she  could  not  help  singing.  She  knew 
and  loved  California,  and  delighted  to  describe 
with  an  ever-ready  pen  her  unique  and  manifold 
charms ;  and  this  she  did  with  peculiar  accuracy 
in  countless  beautiful  lines.  She  knew  Califor 
nia's  sun  and  sky ;  her  blithsome  airs,  her 
mountains,  canons,  hills  and  dales;  her  trees, 
grasses  and  flowers,  and  her  perennial  summer 
time.  She  possessed  a  large,  lofty,  splendid  con 
ception  of  California,  of  her  possibilities,  and  of 
her  manifest  destiny;  and  she  gave  telling 
expression  to  that  conception  on  numberless 
occasions.  Possessing  a  polished  mind,  a  rare 
intellect,  a  high  soul  and  an  all-embracing 
human  sympathy,  she  was  a  rare  woman.  She 
bore  in  her  responsive  breast  a  true  and  tender 
heart,  loving  her  friends,  comrades  and  com 
patriots  with  a  deep  and  abiding  affection.  She 
was  a  noble  example  of  the  true  woman,  wife 
and  mother;  and  we  who  survive  her,  no  longer 
working  by  her  side,  may  well  cherish  her  sweet 
memory  and  gracious  deeds  as  a  priceless,  an 
imperishable  legacy  to  those  whom  she  was  com 
pelled  by  the  Great  Reaper  to  leave  behind  when 
she  set  sail  on  her  mysterious  voyage  to  the 
Undiscovered  Country. 

She  has  gone  to  bivouac  on  the  shining  plains 
of  God ;  her  unfettered  soul  dwells  with  the 
immortals.  Peace  be  to  her  precious  dust ! 
Sweet  be  her  final  rest !  Forever  green  be  the 
turf  above  her  honored  grave !  Joyous,  let  us 
believe,  was  her  waking  on  the  eternal  morning  ! 


265 


Personal  Sketch. 


This  volume  may  be  appropriately  closed 
with  some  account  of  the  dedication  of  the 
touching  memorial  —  a  chime  of  twelve  bells  — 
recently  erected  in  honor  of  her  who  has 
gone  before.  The  bells  are  hung  in  the  tower 
of  the  chapel  at  Hollywood  Cemetery,  where 
reposes  her  honored  dust.  This  memorial  was 
created  through  the  reverent  and  thoughtful 
efforts  of  the  Eliza  A.  Otis  Memorial  Associa 
tion,  seconded,  to  the  best  of  their  ability,  by 
her  husband,  family,  friends  and  associates  of 
the  Los  Angeles  Times.  This  association  is 
composed  of  good  men,  women  and  children 
(nearly  three  hundred  in  number)  living  far 
and  near,  who  united  in  thus  paying  tribute  to 
the  noble  life,  high  character  and  deathless 
name  of  one  who  did  what  she  could  to  make 


the  world  better  by  living  in  it,  and  who  wore 
worthily  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless  life.* 
HARRISON  GRAY  OTIS. 


The  Bivouac, 
November  12,  1905. 


*  The  unique  idea  of  the  Memorial  Chimes  was  the 
conception  of  a  member  of  the  Executive  Committee, 
which  is  composed  of  the  following  named  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen,  all  of  whom  were  friends  and  admirers:  Mrs. 
Jefferson  D.  Gibbs,  chairman;  Rev.  Wm.  Horace  Day, 
vice-chairman;  Hon.  Russell  J.  Waters,  treasurer;  Mr! 
John  Freeman,  auditor;  Mrs.  Albert  C.  Rogers,  recording 
secretary;  Mrs  Will  Thilenius,  corresponding  secretary, 
and  Mrs.  D.  G.  Stephens.  They  have  earned  the  deep 
thanks  of  myself  and  family  by  their  successful  efforts. 

The  bells  are  the  product  of  the  long-established  Buck 
eye  Bell  Foundry  of  Cincinnati,  being  the  skillful  work 
of  many  months.  Each  has  a  suitable  inscription  cut  into 
its  brazen  face — to  stand  while  Time  endures — perpetuat 
ing,  in  telling  verse,  high  thoughts  uttered  by  her  in 
whose  honor  these  melodious  chimes  will  be  often  rung 
through  the  years  to  come. 


266 


r 


APPENDIX. 

THE  MEMORIAL  BELLS. 


"THE  BELLS  OF  HOLLYWOOD." 


BEAUTIFUL  CEREMONY  OF  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  MEMORIAL  CHIMES. 


NO    more    appropriate    and    touching    could 
have  been  the  exercises  that  were  held 
at  Hollywood  Cemetery  on  the  first  anni 
versary   of   the    death   of   Mrs.    Otis,   when   the 
Memorial    Chimes    erected    in    her    honor    were 
formally  dedicated.     The  account  below  follows, 
substantially,  the  lines  of  the  report  published  in 
the  Los  Angeles  Times  on  the  succeeding  morn 
ing,    November    16,    1905,    though    it    has    been 
elaborated  and  perfected  in  some  particulars : 


THE  EVENT  AND  THE  SCENE. 
Prologue. 

Bells  are  for  a  poet's  memory,  their  music  the  echoes 
of  the  poet's  songs.  For  the  soldier,  bronze;  for  the 
statesman,  tablet  of  brass;  for  the  artificer,  the  sculp 
tured  stone;  and  for  whoever  else,  whate'er  you  will. 
But  for  the  poet— bells. 

One  year  ago  it  was  that  we  looked  upon  our  own  dear 
poet  in  the  first  day's  sleep  of  death.  One  year  ago, 
when  upon  her  lips  of  song  the  first  hush  fell.  Then 
stood  we  beside  her  bier,  too  blind  with  tears  to  see 
beyond  the  grief-wrung  hour,  too  dumb  with  heartache  to 
understand.  But  yesterday  it  was  not  so.  Again  we 
stood  beside  her  grave,  again  we  spoke  her  name. 
And  a  year  is  not  long.  It  is  only  one  little  undertone 
in  a  lifetime  of  sighs.  Yet  it  is  enough  to  clear  the 
vision  and  to  school  the  soul.  A  year  ago  we  stood  with 
the  Angel  of  Grief.  Yesterday  the  Angel  of  Joy  smiled 
down  upon  us  from  eyes  serene  with  glory,  while  songs 
of  victory  were  lifted  to  the  skies,  and  the  bells  chimed 
from  the  swaying  tower  the  deathless  music  of  love  and 
faith. 


In  memory  of  Eliza  A.  Otis  there  was  yesterday 
[November  15,  1905,]  dedicated  in  Hollywood  Cemetery 
a  chime  of  twelve  bells.  They  were  made  in  a  great 
bell  foundry  of  the  Buckeye  State,  upon  the  order  of 
the  Eliza  A.  Otis  Memorial  Association,  representing 
many  people  of  California,  who  by  popular  subscription 
defrayed  the  expense  of  their  manufacture.  It  was  the 
public's  recognition  of  a  quarter  of  a  century's  unselfish 
labor  in  its  behalf  by  Mrs.  Otis  as  a  journalist,  and  as 
a  woman  whose  broad  charities  reached  into  all  the  walks 
of  life.  It  was  also,  and  perhaps  more  particularly  so, 
a  tribute  of  loving  friends  and  admirers,  a  tribute  to  the 
genius  of  Mrs.  Otis  as  a  poet  and  a  writer  of  rare  and 
exquisite  prose.  Withal,  it  stands  as  an  expression  of 
a  people's  gratitude  so  beautiful  in  its  conception  and 
so  unique  in  its.  character  as  to  be  quite  without  parallel. 
The  only  other  public  testimonial  to  a  literary  woman 
that  at  all  approaches  it  in  significance  is  the  placing  of 
a  tablet  in  the  walls  of  a  house  in  Florence  by  the  grate 
ful  Florentines  in  honor  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

The  Eliza  A.  Otis  Memorial  Association,  formed  for 
the  especial  purpose  of  perpetuating  in  some  befitting 
manner  the  memory  of  a  gifted  and  noble  woman,  could 


not  have  been  so  happily  inspired  in  any  other  concep 
tion  as  it  was  in  this  idea  of  the  bells.  The  work, 
now  done,  will  remain  forever  to  the  credit  of  those  who 
undertook  it  so  gladly  and  prosecuted  it  to  so  splendid 
a  conclusion.  In  all  the  history  of  California  there  was 
never  a  celebration  like  the  one  held  yesterday  in  Holly 
wood  Cemetery.  The  day  will  live  in  the  recollections  of 
those  who  witnessed  it  while  remembrance  lasts,  and  it 
will  go  down  into  the  annals  of  the  future  ineffaceable 
in  its  historic  beauty  and  importance. 


The  day  was  ideal  and  the  scene  peerless.  At  the  ap 
pointed  hour,  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  more  than  two 
thousand  people  were  gathered  on  the  spot.  The  sky  was 
dappled  with  a  canopy  of  fleece-rolled  clouds,  as  though 
Nature  had  especially  prearranged  for  the  comfort  of 
those  who  came  to  witness  the  ceremonies  or  to  take  part  in 
them.  There  was  no  glare  of  sun,  while,  at  the  same  time, 
the  air  was  as  warm  as  the  perfect  day  of  Lowell's 
June.  The  hills  of  Hollywood  stood  silhouetted  against 
the  soft,  vague  outlines  of  the  tender  skies,  and  up  from 
the  sea  to  the  southwest  blew  the  gentle  breeze.  In  the 
clear  distance  old  Mt.  San  Antonio  rose  majestically  in  its 
hood  of  snow,  with  the  white  cap  of  Telegraph  Peak  for 
neighbor.  From  the  gates  of  the  City  of  the  Dead 
stretched  dream-kissed  highways,  flame  hedged  With 
flowers  and  reaching  away  to  east  and  west  through  or 
chards  of  olive  and  groves  of  towering  eucalypti.  South 
ward  lay  the  wrapt  and  listening  plain,  against  which,  in 
hazy  distance,  crept  the  white  sweep  of  the  Sunset  Ocean. 
Now  and  then  we  heard  the  plaintive  note  of  the  lark 
and  a  burst  of  song  from  the  throat  of  many  a  winged 
wanderer  of  the  air.  The  hour  was  holy,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  spirits  of  the  unseen  dead  were  hovering  with 
loving  eagerness  about  the  scene. 


In  all  that  was  said  and  done  throughout  the  whole 
afternoon  there  ran  one  strong,  unceasing  and  deathless 
note  of  joy.  This  was  as  it  should  be,  and  as  she  would 
have  had  it  in  whose  memory  the  day  had  been  set  apart. 
Silent,  it  is  true,  lay  her  dust  in  the  grave  around  which 
the  concourse  of  her  friends  and  lovers  gathered.  But 
that  was  not  all.  She  was  not  dead,  but  living  in  a  world 
beyond,  whither  she  had  gone  at  the  summons  of  the 
Master  whom  she  adored.  She  was  not  dead — we  could 
not  feel  it  to  be  so.  And  when  one  golden-voiced  speaker 
called  to  her  for  himself  and  for  every  one  there,  dull 
indeed  was  the  soul  that  did  not  feel  the  very  presence  of 
her  spirit  near.  There  comes  not  often  such  a  time 
on  this  earth  as  that  thrilling  moment  when  Dr.  Mc- 
Intyre  wrung  from  his  own  soul  and  from  ours  that  cry 
that  brought  down  from  her  shining  company — listening 
overhead — the  soul  of  our  lost  Singer  to  stand  once  more 
in  the  midst  of  those  who  breathed  her  name  from  a  full 
and  tender  faith. 

It  was  all  as  it  should  have  been;  indeed,  she  herself 
would  not  have  had  it  otherwise,  as  well  we  knew.  Music 
and  song  and  the  voice  of  lofty  thought,  the  high  ideal, 


268 


Story  of  the  Dedication. 


and  the  call  to  the  purer  life— these  were  the  things 
that  were  done  and  said,  and  such  were  the  things  she 
loved.  Under  the  bells,  swung  aloft  in  the  belfry 
tower,  were  banked  the  fair  and  sweet-voiced  singers  of 
the  Treble  Clef  Club,  gowned  brightly  for  the  joyous 
event.  Schubert  and  Mendelssohn  they  sang,  sweet  and 
clear  with  ravishing  melody.  Twice  they  sang;  first, 
"The  Lord  is  My  Shepherd,"  and  next,  "Lift  Thine 
Eyes."  The  Rev.  Robert  J.  Burdette  delivered  the  me 
morial  oration  as  only  he  might  deliver  it,  friend  of  the 
dead  that  he  was,  lover  of  her  songs  and  intimate 
acquaintance  of  her  lovely  life.  "Poet  she  was,"  said 
he,  "and  priestess  and  prophetess — akin  to  all  her  kind." 
More  he  said,  and  much  more,  but  it  was  all  summed  in 
those  words.  Then  Rev.  William  Horace  Day  dedicated 
the  bells,  christening  each  with  its  name,  and  touching 
with  simple  eloquence  on  their  mission  and  the  messages 
they  brought.  Mrs.  W.  D.  Turner  read,  with  clearness 
and  appreciation,  "California,"  a  noble  poem,  selected 
from  among  the  best  of  Mrs.  Otis's  verse.*  The 
Rabbi  Voorsanger,  coming  specially  from  San  Francisco 
to  pay  the  tribute  of  the  North,  spoke  with  magnificent 
fervor  of  the  services  that  Mrs.  Otis  had  rendered  her 
State  and  her  country  and  all  mankind.  Afterward  the 
people  went  to  the  grave,  where  Dr.  Robert  Mclntyre 
spoke,  as  before  referred  to,  and  Rabbi  Hecht  pro 
nounced  the  benediction. 


THE  EXERCISES. 

As  early  as  noon  friends  and  admirers  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Otis  began  to  wend  their  way  to  Hollywood  Ceme 
tery  to  witness  the  dedication  of  the  noble  chime  of  bells 
erected  in  honor  of  her  memory.  The  exercises  began 
promptly  at  2  o'clock,  and  at  that  hour  a  great  assem 
blage  of  people— more  than  two  thousand— was  massed 
around  the  chapel  at  the  entrance  to  the  cemetery.  The 
gathering  embraced  people  of  all  stations  in  life,  coming 
from  many  parts.  It  was  not  idle  curiosity,  but  reverent 
love  and  respect  for  one  who  made  the  world  better  by 
living  in  it,  that  prompted  them  to  fare  thither. 

A  little  to  the  westward  of  the  chapel  was  erected  a 
commodious  platform  for  the  speakers  and  others  par 
ticipating  in  the  exercises.  Against  the  west  wall  of 
the  chapel  was  a  stand  with  terraced  seats  for  the  accom 
modation  of  the  Treble  Clef  Club,  which  furnished  vocal 
music.  Before  the  hour  for  the  opening  of  the  pro 
gramme,  every  seat  was  occupied,  and  people  stood  in 
solid  ranks  for  a  considerable  distance  beyond  the  seated 
area.  It  was  a  notable  audience  that  was  assembled  there 
under  the  vaulted  dome  of  heaven.  The  sky  was  overcast 
with  a  curtain  of  clouds,  just  thick  enough  to  soften 
the  glare  of  the  sun  without  shutting  off  the  glorious 
autumn  light,  of  which  Mrs.  Otis  had  so  often  sung.  Tt 
was,  imshort,  an  ideal  day  for  such  an  outdoor  gathering. 

Introductory  Address. 

At  2  o'clock  p.m.  Mrs.  Jefferson  D.  Gibbs,  chairman 
of  the  Eliza  A.  Otis  Memorial  Association,  graciously 


•The  poem  will  be   found  on   page  2,    numbored   III. 


called  the  assemblage  to  order  and  stated  the  object  of 
the  gathering,  briefly,  as  follows: 

"Members  of  the  Memorial  Association  and  Friends: 
Our  work  of  love  is  ended.  From  this  chapel  tower 
swing  deep-throated  bells,  whose  silver  tongues  shall  tell, 
long  after  we  have  crumbled  into  dust,  the  story  of  our 
love  and  loyalty  to  her  whose  law  of  life  was'  love  to 
every  living  thing;  shall  tell  throughout  the  changing 
years  the  sweeter  story  of  her  changeless  trust  in  God 
and  faith  in  man.  Across,  into  the  world  invisible,  love 
seeks  the  way  and  finds  it.  Speaking  in  her  name,  these 
chiming  bells  shall  voice  her  messages;  in  morning  song 
and  evening  hymn  give  comfort  to  the  sorrowing,  hope 
to  the  discouraged  and  strength  to  every  listening  soul 
to  bear  the  daily  grind  of  common  duty.  So  shall  the 
sweet  influence  of  her  noble  life  forever  live  to  bless 
the  world  and  make  it  better. 

"For  months  we  have  looked  forward  to  the  full 
fruition  of  our  hopes.  The  hour  has  come,  and  now,  in 
the  name  of  the  Executive  Committee,  I  thank  the  mem 
bers  of  this  association  for  their  cordial  co-operation  and 
assistance  in  perfecting  and  carrying  to  completion  the 
plan  for  this  unique  and  beautiful  memorial  which  has 
been  erected  in  honor  of  the  precious  memorv  of  Mrs. 
Eliza  A.  Otis." 

Vice-Chairman  Day. 

Mrs.  Gibbs  then  gave  way  to  the  vice-chairman  of  the 
association,  Rev.  William  Horace  Day,  as  director  of 
ceremonies.  Mr.  Day  in  turn  introduced  Rev.  Dr.  Hugh 
K.  Walker,  pastor  of  Immanuel  Presbyterian  Giurch, 
who  delivered  an  eloquent  invocation. 

Rev.  Mr.  Walker's  Prayer. 

Almighty  God  and  Gracious  Heavenly  Father:  Thou 
who  art  the  source  of  all  light  and  life  and  beauty — 
the  inspirer  of  all  harmony,  the  dispenser  of  all  good — 
we  give  Thee  heart-felt  thanks  for  the  lives  of  all  Thy 
saints,  who,  having  finished  their  labors,  find  everlasting 
rest  and  felicity  in  Thee. 

Especially  do  we  praise  Thee  at  this  time  for  the  life 
and  service  of  the  one  who  was  so  dear  to  all  our  hearts 
and  whose  memory  is  to  all  of  us  a  precious  heritage. 
We  thank  Thee  for  the  love  which  she  ever  manifested 
toward  her  fellow-men  and  for  her  unswerving  loyalty 
to  Thee  and  to  all  the  interests  or  Thy  Kingdom.  We 
thank  Thee  for  the  Heavenly  harmonics  that  she  brought 
into  this  earth-world  of  ours,  and  for  this  golden  land 
which  she  glorified  with  her  pen  and  made  more  beau 
tiful  by  the  gracious  deeds  of  her  loving  and  loyal  life. 

We  rejoice  in  the  fact  that  hearts  touched  by  her 
blessed  ministry  devised  this  beautiful  and  permanent 
memorial — this  chime  of  bells,  a  fitting  symbol  of  a  life 
which  poured  forth  such  rich  harmonies. 

We  invoke  Thy  blessing  upon  all  who  are  gathered 
here — these  friends  and  neighbors  who  come  to  show 
honor  to  their  dear  dead  friend;  and  yet  we  know  she 
is  not  dead,  but  will  ever  live  in  myriads  of  hearts  made 
better  by  her  presence. 

We  especially  remember  those  to  whom  she  was  most 
dear — the  charmed  home-circle  where  her  loss  is  even 
more  keenly  felt  as  the  days  go  by.  Wilt  Thou  comfort 
them  and  cause  them  to  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  her 
influence  has  so  blessed  and  glorified  the  world ! 

We  ask  that  Thy  blessing  may  rest  upon  all  the  exer 
cises  of  this  hour,  and  upon  these  bells,  that  they  may, 
through  all  the  coming  years,  chime  out  their  message 
of  faith  and  hope  and  love.  And  unto  Thee,  our  God 
and  Father,  we  would  render  all  the  praise,  through 
Jesus  Christ  our  Lord. 


269 


"The  Bells  of  Hollywood/' 


Inspiring  Music. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  invocation  the  Los  Angeles 
Treble  Clef  Club,  composed  of  more  than  two  score  of 
finely-trained  women's  voices,  sang  with  exquisite  eifect 
the  Twenty-third  Psalm,  "The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd" 
(Schubert.)  Miss  Blanche  Rogers  played  the  accom 
paniment  and  W.  H.  Lott  was  the  leader.  The  musical 
programme  was  under  the  direction  of  Mrs.  William 
John  Scholl,  chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Music  and 
former  president  of  the  Treble  Clef  Club.  Many  other 
leading  musical  women  besides  Mrs.  Scholl  and  Mrs. 
Schallert,  president  of  the  club,  are  members  of  the 
Treble  Clef  Club  and  took  part  in  the  programme. 


THE  MEMORIAL  ORATION 
By  Rev.  Robert  J.  Burdette. 

This  famous  man — humorist,  journalist,  soldier,  orator 
and  pastor  of  Temple  Baptist  Church — was  at  his  best, 
and  spoke  from  the  heart  as  one  who  knew  Mrs.  Otis 
intimately  and  appreciated  her  genius  and  goodness.  His 
oration  was  both  strong  and  tender.  Taking  for  his  sub 
ject,  "The  Poetess  of  Life,"  Mr.  Burdette  said: 

She  loved  the  things  she  saw  and  heard.  Life — of  the 
flower  and  the  bird,  of  Man  and  the  sky — appealed  to 
her.  Like  the  Master  at  Cana,  her  loving  fancy  trans 
muted  earth's  common  things  into  wine. 

Eliza  A.  Otis— Poet  of  the  things  that  are:  If  I  could 
find  one  word  to  express  the  theme  of  her  many- 
stanza'd  song,  it  would  be,  Life.  It  might  have  been 
with  her  as  with  Susan  Coolidge, 

"Thank  God  for  Life;  Life  is  not  sweet  always, 
Hands  may  be  weary  laden,  hearts  care  full, 

Unwelcome  nights  follow  unwelcome  days, 
And  dreams  divine  end  in  awakenings  dull, 

Still,  it  is  Life,  and  Life  is  cause  for  praise." 

But  this  singer  made  life  seem  always  sweet  to  us— 
always  good. 

"I  am  come,"  said  the  Great  Teacher,  "that  they 
might  have  life,  and  that  they  might  have  it  more 
abundantly."  This  woman  held  out  her  heart,  like  a 
crystal  chalice,  and  the  Lord  of  Life  filled  it  from 
celestial  springs  with  an  overflowing  abundance  of  the 
love  of  life.  This  made  her  a  poet — anointed  her  as  one 
of  "God's  prophets  of  the  beautiful."  Always  she 
ministered  before  the  white  altar  of  Truth,  a  priestess 
of  the  great  sodality  of  the  poets  who  look  ever  Godward 
for  their  sublimest  inspirations;  who  can  sing  no  false 
note,  because  their  souls  are  ever  attuned  to  the  universal 
key  of  Nature's  voice,  sounded  in  a  thousand  tongues, 
what  men  call  the  dead  languages  of  buried  yesterdays, 
in  the  ringing  speech  of  the  men  of  today,  in  the  unborn 
intonation  projected  into  the  living  soul'of  tomorrow  by 
the  prophets  and  singers  of  yesterday.  She  was  "dowered 
with  the  hate  of  hate,  the'  scorn  of  scorn,  the  love  of 
love."  She  walked  hand  in  hand  with  Nature  and  life, 
and  was  of  a  kin  with  all  her  singing  kind.  She  looked 
up  at  the  peaks  in  the  western  mountains,  so  dear  and 
beautiful  to  her,  and  lo!  while  snow-capped  San  Antonio 
filled  her  eyes,  she  walked  upon  the  singing  slopes  of 
"double-headed  Parnassus,"  and  twined  its  mrytle  about 
her  brows.  Here  in  this  dark  canon  she  sees  the  Corycian 
cavern  and  hears  the  voices  of  the  Muses  and  the  faint 
echoes  of  Apollo's  harp.  This  fountain  bubbling  up  in 
the  thicket  of  California  laurel— this  is  the  Castalian 
spring  at  which  she  stoops  to  drink,  and  the  trail  that 
reaches  away  down  the  mountain  slopes— surely  this  is 


the  sacred  road  to  Delphi.  "Echo  Mountain"  was  her 
Helicon,  and  the  spring  with  the  Spanish  name  was 
Hippocrene,  and  the  drifting  cloud  of  snow-white  mist 
carried  before  her  eyes  the  mounting  figure  of  the  winged 
steed.  Dryad  of  the  wood,  and  Naiad  of  the  brook,  and 
Nereid  of  the  restless  sea  whispered  their  fancies  to  her 
listening  heart.  She  saw  the  laughing  faces  of  the 
Oceanides  in  the  curling  waves,  and  in  the  thunder  of 
the  surf  she  heard  "Old  Triton  breathe  his  wreathed 
horn."  All  things  lived,  to  her,  with  articulate  life, 
sentient  and  warm  and  throbbing  with  the  life  that 
touched  her  own.  She  was  one  of  the  blessed  ones  who 

"are  first  to  mark 

Through  earth's  dull  mist  the  coming  of  the  dawn, 
Who  see  in  twilight's  gloom  the  first  pale  spark, 
While  others  only  note  that  day  is  gone." 

Her  muse  was  buoyant.  Her  song  was  joyous.  Tender 
her  sympathy  always,  and  ready.  Her  lightest  song  knew 
the  deep  octave  of  sorrow,  but  it  was  never  sorrow  with 
out  hope.  Times  there  were  when  the  clear-seeing  eyes 
were  dimmed  with  tears,  when  the  singing  lips  quivered 
with  pain,  and  the  sweetness  of  the  song  trembled  with 
the  breaking  sob.  But  never  was  there  a  note  of  despair. 
Always,  when  she  sang,  "The  Night  cometh" — then  fol 
lowed  the  exultant  prophecy — "also  the  Morning!"  God 
led  her  down  shaded  paths  into  the  valley  of  silence — • 
into  the  world  of  quiet,  and  shut  out  from  her  the 
sounds  of  strife  and  the  sweet  voices  of  friends.  Bnt 
her  living  soul  heard  on  more  clearly  than  ever,  for  she 
listened  with  heart  and  eyes,  and  the  voices  of  poesy 
were  never  silenced,  and  the  song  grew  clearer  and  higher. 
We  thought,  as  she  made  her  affliction  light  by  her  joyous 
faith,  of  the  voice  of  another  poet — 

"Bird  of  the  broken  wing, 

Hurt  beyond  power  to  bind — 
How  hast  thou  heart  to  sing 

When  Heaven  is  so  unkind? 

"Woe  for  my  ruined  flight! 

Joy  for  my  Heart  of  Song ! 
I  sing  for  the  Song's  delight, 

And  Heaven  hath  done  no  wrong!" 

She  sang  of  the  Good,  the  Beautiful,  the  True.  Of  the 
Good,  for  she  believed  in  the  best.  Hers  was  not  a  blind 
optimism,  that  calls  the  midnight  noonday.  It  was  the 
optimism  of  faith  that  sees  the  coming  of  the  dawn  in 
the  very  motion  of  the  midnight  stars. 

She  'sang  of  Beauty.  The  "flower  in  the  crannied 
wall"  drew  her  lips  to  it  with  a  kiss,  as  the  violet  hidden 
in  the  lowly  grasses  draws  the  caresses  of  the  sun.  The 
wild-flowers  charmed  her  even  as  the  conservatory  could 
wake  her  harp  to  strains  of  praise.  The  daintiness  of 
the  mountain  pink  and  the  splendor  of  the  rose  alike 
appealed  to  her. 

And  Truth  she  sang.  She  believed  well  of  God's  fair 
world.  Good  in  the  worst  she  found,  and  better  in  the 
good.  Truth  was  the  center  and  soul  of  her  songs.  So 
beautiful  appeared  the  world  to  her  that  she  might  have 
said  with  Miranda: 

"There's  nothing  ill  can  dwell  in  such  a  temple; 

If  the  ill-spirit  have  so  fair  a  house, 

Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with  it."  9 

Truth  was  the  light  and  music  of  her  world,  because 
it  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  that  world.  For  its 
own  sake  she  loved  it.  She  believed  with  George  Mac- 
Donald,  "There  is  no  veil  like  light — no  adamantine  armor 
against  hurt  like  Truth."  She  worshiped  it,  as  it  came 
into  the  world  with  Jesus — Truth  incarnate,  who  looked 


270 


Story  of  the  Dedication. 


unrecognized  into  the  eyes  of  the  questioning  Pilate. 
This  was  to  her  the  germ  of  every  good.  To  hate  a  lie; 
to  distrust  an  ungenerous  thought;  to  despise  a  mean 
action;  to  draw  back  from  the  frank-sounding  phrase 
with  the  double  meaning;  to  shrink  from  the  false  glitter 
of  deceit  as  the  bird  trembles  with  fear  before  the  cruel 
beauty  of  the  serpent's  eyes — these  things  were  natural 
to  her.  She  loved  the  Truth,  and  worshiped  it  for  its 
nobility  through  all  the  thousands  of  years.  She  stood 
before  it,  and  saw  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  its  figure, 
the  grace  of  its  untroubled  brow,  the  calm  of  its  mirror- 
clear  eyes.  She  saw  its  white  robes  stained  with  blood 
of  the  martyrs  in  all  ages,  women  and  men  and  little 
children.  To  some  she  had  stood  in  the  schools  of 
paganism;  to  this  man  she  had  beckoned  in  the  tortuous 
paths  of  politics;  and  he  lived  for  her.  This  one,  she 
pointed  to  the  wreathing  flames  at  the  stake,  and  he 
died  for  her.  For  herself,  she  laid  a  finger  on  her  lips, 
and  all  her  woman's  life  she  sang  for  Truth. 

She  sang  the  State  she  loved  so  well,  where  "the  year 
is  one  long  summer;"  she  praised  its  beauties  "and 
splendors,  and,  with  a  lover's  endearing  possessives,  made 
California  exclaim:  "My  hills  and  vales" — "my  skies" — 
"my  clime" — "the  gold  that  fills  the  bosom  of  my 
skies"— "a  cloudless  pathway  for  the  sun."  Her  first 
song  of  the  State,  a  quarter  of  a  century  gone  by,  closes 
with  California's  glad,  prophetic  exultation: 

"Swing  wide,  O  Golden  Gate  of  mine,  swing  wide! 
Door  of  the  world  art  thou,  where  men  may  come 
And  see  my  glory — see,  and  enter  in !" 

More  than  two  score  of  her  songs  are  of  her  State 
dearly  loved:  "A  Wondrous  Land,'  she  calls  it;  "Our 
Summer  Land,"  "The  Land  of  Sunshine."  She  sings  of 
her  home  city,  "Angelcna;"  of  Westlake,  of  the  bees  and 
the  flowers  in  the  parterres  of  "The  Bivouac;"  of  a 
"Hollywood  Hilltop;"  a  vision  of  Berkeley  in  "Under  the 
Oaks;"  a  dream  of  "Catalina;"  and  songs  of  "  Santa  Bar 
bara."  She  bent  above  the  flowers  of  "The  Fair,  Sweet 
Land  We  Love,"  and  poppy  and  orange  blossom,  flaming 
hibiscus,  rose  and  abutilon  and  snowy  water  lilies,  rocking 
on  the  ripples  of  the  pond,  called  to  her  muse  until  she 
lifted  her  eyes  from  the  dainty  wild  pink,  "playing  at 
hide  and  seek  amid  the  blades  of  green  alfileria,"  up  to 
the  majesty  of  "The  Great  Sequoias"— "children  of 
centuries,"  "deathless  monarchs  of  the  mighty  hills  and 
woods;"  and  her  song  changes  to  the  majestic  cadences 
of  a  march.  She  walked  among  the  silences  of  the  crum 
bling  cloisters  of  the  Missions,  old  and  gray,  and  she 
clasped  the  brown  hands  of  "dusky  children  o'f  the  sun" 
back  in  the 

"Day  of  Time's  Days, 

When  on  these  sunlit  shores  there  softly  fell 
The  waking  echoes  of  the  Mission  bell, 

Stirring  the  silent  air 

With  call  to  praise  and  prayer." 

In  love  with  life  and  all  its  changing  moods  and 
moments,  she  sang  of  every  month  that  circled  the 
calendar,  each  with  its  own  peculiar  charm  from  the 
time 

"Morn  with  her  soft  rosy  fingers 

Flung  open  the  gates  of  the  East, 
And  the  New  Year  looked  out  from  its  chambers 

With  a  smile  and  a  blessing  of  peace — " 

through  "rose-lipped  May"  and  "June-bright  skies"  to 
the  "sun-crowned  days"  of  Christmas  tide,  "riotous  in 
joyance,"  than  whom  "June's  self  were  not  more  fair." 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  and  night,  with  "the 
glory  that  is  hid  by  the  clear  shining  of  the  noonday 


sun"— each  passing  hour  had  for  her  poetic  soul  sweet 
"voices  of  its  own,  like  whispers  from  some  far-off  world 
outblown."  The  clouds  called  to  her  even  as  the  sun,  and 
she  mingled  her  prayer  with  "the  low-voiced  and  per 
fumed  pleading  of  the  flowers,  the  brown  and  sighing 
grasses,  and  mute  plains,"  and  she  chanted  their  gratitude 
in  her  own  prophetic  strains,  seeing  in  the  slanting  rain- 
lines  "blossoms  sweet  of  many  colored  dyes,"  "and  sum 
mer  dreaming  in  December's  arms."  Always  the  mother 
heart  throbbed  in  her  thoughts,  and  she  'whispered,  in 
the  soft  crooning  of  a  lullaby,  of  "Little  Children"  "like 
flowers  that  blossom  on  the  slopes  of  time,  and  make  a 
holy  Eden  in  our  hearts;"  a  hymn  of  welcome  to  the 
little  one,  born,  a  lily  bud  of  peace,  in  the  home  with 
love  for  its  threshold  and  the  martial  name  of  "The 
Bivouac"  on  its  crest— a  baby  girl,  "daughter  of  this 
bright  clime,"  "sweet  as  the '  fragrance  that  the  roses 
yield,  pure  as  the  perfect  lily's  bloom."  A  soldier's  wife, 
her  white  hands  knew  how  to  clasp  the  shining  eagles 
of  the  sword  belt,  and  she  bore  her  part  in  the  wars 
that  made  more  glorious  its  story  and  kept  unstained 
from  dishonor  the  flag  of  her  country— a  woman's  hard 
part  in  war— the  lofty  courage  and  pure  patriotism  of 
patient  waiting— the  long  agony  of  suspense  and  heart 
ache,  when  the  soul  is  always  on  sentry  duty— always 
watching,  and  hoping,  and  praying.  Always  he'r  country 
was  greater  in  her  soul  of  true  patriotism  than  was  her 
State,  even  as  it  is  greater  on  the  map  of  the  world,  and 
she  sang  of  its  glories  and  splendor  and  triumphs  like  a 
Deborah — "Hear,  O  ye  kings;  give  ear,  O  ye  princes!" 

Higher  than  the  mountains  she  looked,  and  beyond  the 
stars  her  soul  caught  visions  of  "the  Undiscovered  Coun 
try"  when  in  her  "Lazarus"  she  draws  a  picture  of 
surpassing  beauty  and  tenderness  of  the  blessed  home  in 
Bethany.  She  voiced,  as  only  a  woman's  soul  can  do, 
the  sad  reiterated  plaint  of  the  "gentle  Mary"— "Why 
cometh  not  the  Master?"  and  the  joyous  message — "The 
Master  is  come,  and  calleth  for  thee!"  and  then  the 
climax  to  the  scene  of  awe  and  glory— "Death  hath 
found  its  Conqueror!"  Woman  and  home  she  sang; 
man  and  his  conquests  she  celebrated,  guiding,  pilot-like, 
Columbus,  the  Dreaming  Admiral,  from  the  "red-tiled 
roof  of  blessed  Rabida,  loved  by  the  morning  sun,"  until 
he  "saw  a  new  world  rise  upon  far  western  waters, 
where,  sleeping,  lay  the  whole  world's  hopes,  broad'ning 
the  round  sweet  earth!"  and  "all  the  waiting  years  were 
crowned." 

O  friends !  if  I  only  read  to  you  the  titles  of  her  poems, 
sweet  perfumed  buds  that  crown  the  vines  which  bear 
them,  they  would  tell  the  story  of  her  dreams  and  life- 
work,  inwrought  and  interwoven,  dream  and  task,  hope 
and  duty,  purpose  and  performance,  like  the  warp  and 
woof  of  a  silken  web,  holding  a  rainbow  of  all  hues  of 
thought  within  its  meshes  of  brain  and  soul — thought  and 
inspiration;  insight  and  revelation.  From  star  to  firefly 
ranged  her  eyes  and  thought;  from  the  tiny  shell  and 
the  seaweed  stranded  on  the  beach,  to  the  "deep, 
un fathomed  caves  of  ocean"  ranged  her  muse.  This 
was  the  "abundance  of  her  life" — a  life  that  loved  so 
well  and  so  purely,  "all  things,  both  great  and  small." 

While  through  all  range  of  time  ajid  world  space 
roved  her  thoughts,  yet  always  this  land  was  her  theme. 
To  her  it  held  all  the  world!  "The  Old  Adobe,"  where 
"the  winds  have  dropped  asleep  amid  the  palms,  breath 
ing  but  lightly,  as  if  dreaming  sweet  of  fragrant  silence 
and  of  tropic  cairns" — this  was  her  crumbling  palace  of 
the  Caesars;  "its  sunburnt  bricks  hoary  with  old  age, 
its  red-tiled  roof,  breathing  of  the  past,"  was  to  her 
"Romance's  wide,  unlettered  page" — deep  in  its  mystery 
as  some  white  ruin  in  old  Egypt;  from  its  old  walls  the 
stony  lips  of  Memnon  woke  for  her  in  song.  If  all  the 
world  of  Romance  and  story  and  song  was  hers,  yet 
was  her  California  all  the  world.  And  the  nearer  that 
California  clustered  about  her  own  dear  home  and  the 


271 


"The  Bells  of  Hollywood" 


loved  ones  who  made  it  home  to  her,  the  sweeter  and 
the  truer  rose  her  song.  So  sweet  was  life,  so  true  was 
life  to  her,  that  Mrs.  Barbauld  sang  her  "Farewell  and 
Hail"  to  it— 

"Life!  we've  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 

'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear; 

Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 
Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time; 
Say  not,  'Good  night,'  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  'Good  Morning!'  " 


DEDICATING  THE  BELLS. 
Rev.  William  Horace  Day. 

The  dedication  of  the  bells  was  a  labor  of  love  per 
formed  by  Rev.  William  Horace  Day,  pastor  of  the  First 
Congregational  Church  of  Los  Angeles.  Mr.  Day,  both 
in  his  capacity  as  vice-chairman  of  the  Eliza  A.  Otis 
Memorial  Association  and  as  pastor  of  the  church  in 
which  she  worshiped,  took  a  very  active  interest  in  the 
erection  of  the  memorial,  and  it  was  therefore  with  a 
feeling  of  great  satisfaction  that  he  officiated  at  the 
fruition  of  the  project.  He  prefaced  the  christening  and 
dedication  of  the  bells  with  the  following  remarks: 

"One  year  ago  today  we  gathered  in  this  beautiful  city 
of  the  dead  to  lay  to  rest  the  precious  dust  of  Eliza  A. 
Otis.  During  this  twelve  months  we  have  realized  that 
she  being  dead  yet  speaketh;  her  deeds  have  lived  after 
her.  No  such  noble  character  can  perish,  though  the  veil 
of  flesh  upon  which  we  looked  has  been  burned  out  of 
our  sight.  We  have  come  to  this  beautiful  spot  a  second 
time  that  we  might  dedicate  to  her  memory  this  chime 
of  bells. 

"It  is  appropriate  that  there  be  erected  such  a 
memorial.  Christians  have  associated  with  bells  the 
noblest  ideals  ever  since  Pope  Sabinus,  early  in  the 
Seventh  Century,  commanded  that  they  become  the  '  Her 
alds  of  the  Church.'  Ever  since,  generous  men  and  women 
have  been  dedicating  bells  to  the  work  of  reaching  the 
ears  and  of  touching  the  heart.  To  this  end  they  were 
baptized  and  named  as  a  sign  of  consecration  to  the 
service  of  God  and  the  inspiring  of  man.  He  who  has 
wandered  among  the  cities  of  the  Low  Countries,  among 
the  Swiss  mountains,  the  highways  of  Germany  and 
France,  or  has  lived  in  England  or  Spain,  cannot  fail  to 
be  thankful  for  the  bells  that  pious  hands  have  made 
and  rung. 

"We  live  in  a  land  where  piety  early  expressed  itself 
in  the  ringing  of  bells.  In  the  old  mission  days  the 
sound  of  the  Angelus  was  heard  from  San  Diego  to  San 
Francisco.  The  bells  themselves  were  symbols  of  no 
mean  enthusiasm. 

" '  When  the  red,  molten  metals  hotly  glowed, 
Ready  those  ancient  Mission  Bell's  to  cast, 

Matrons  and  maids  of  old  Castile  stood  by 
And  threw^therein  the  relics  of  the  past — 

Vases  of  silver,  whence  their  Spanish  sires 

Quaffed  the  red  wine;  the    chains  and  rings  of  gold; 

And  thus,  with  gifts  and  prayers,  the  Mission  Bells 
Were  cast,  and  christened  all  for  saints  of  old.' 

"This  tower,  standing  in  a  vale  so  fair,  begirt  with 
mountains  and  sloping  yonder  to  the  sea,  surrounded  with 
happy  homes,  is  to  be  more  and  more  the  scene  of  the 
abundant  life. 


"May  these  bells  serve  to  comfort  the  sorrowing  as 
they  toil  for  the  dead.  'Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,  for 
tney  shall  be  comforted,'  said  the  Master,  whose  disciple 
this  saintly  woman  was.  May  they  gladden  the  joyful. 
Jesus  also  said:  'These  things  have  I  spoken  unto  you, 
that  my  joy  may  be  in  you  and  that  your  joy  may  be 
made  full.'  May  they  peal  in  joy  for  Christmas  and 
Easter.  May  these  bells  serve  to  warn  the  imperiled. 
Today  great  bells  ring  to  warn  the  mariner  of  peril.  In 
the  years  to  come  may  the  ever  present  Spirit  of  the  All 
Father  use  their  message  to  deliver  the  imperiled  soul. 

"May  these  bells  summon  men  and  women  to  all  forms 
of  service.  One  of  our  modern  seers  has  sung: 

'"More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wlierefore  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day, 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer.' 

"May  this  chime  of  bells  call  careless  men  to  prayer, 
and  may  the  overshadowing  God  speak  through  them 
when  His  children  forget  Him  and  miss  the  crown  above 
their  heads  they  will  not  rise  to  receive. 

"We  dedicate  this  chime  of  twelve  bells — one  of  Israel's 
sacred  numbers,  no  less  sacred  in  the  Christian  church — 
to  the  glory  of  God  and  to  the  service  of  man,  to  the 
work  of  comforting  the  sorrowing,  gladdening  the  rejoic 
ing,  warning  the  imperiled,  summoning  to  service  and 
calling  to  prayer. 

"Following  an  ancient  custom,  I  shall  dedicate  each  of 
these  bells  by  name,  using  the  twelve  Christian  virtues 
exemplified  in  the  life  of  her  in  whose  honor  we  are 
assembled." 

Mr.  Day  then  described  the  bells  one  by  one,  the  ringer 
sounding  each  as  the  minister  pressed  an  electric  button 
on  the  table  before  him,  beginning  with  the  smallest  one, 
producing  the  highest  note  in  the  musical  scale,  and 
concluding  with  the  largest,  sounding  a  deep-toned  bass. 
He  also  gave  the  weight  of  each  bell  as  it  was  sounded. 
The  names  and  dedicatory  remarks  were  spoken  in  the 
following  order: 

"Meekness  [one  stroke  on  the  bell]  I  dedicate  thee. 

"  Gentleness   [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"  Patience   [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"Goodness   [one  stroke  on  the  bell]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit. 

"  Faithfulness  [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]  I  dedicate  thee. 

"Kindness  [one  stroke  on  the  bell]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"Long-suffering  [one  stroke  on  the  bell]  I  dedicate 
thee. 

"Self-control  [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]  I  dedicate  thee. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit. 

"Mercy  [one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"  Faith   [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"  Hope  [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]  I  dedicate  thee. 

'All  these  abide,  but  the  greatest  of  these  is — 

"  Love   [  one  stroke  on  the  bell  ]   I  dedicate  thee. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Spirit." 

The  speaker  concluded  by  quoting  the  following  stanzas 
from  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam:" 

"Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old; 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

"Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be." 


272 


THE  CHAPEL,  THE  TOWER  AND  THE   BELLS. 


Story  of  the  Dedication. 


RINGING  OF  THE  CHIMES. 

NTo  sooner  was  the  dedication  of  the  bells  concluded 
than  they  began  to  ring  out  their  message  of  good-will  to 
all.  They  were  rung  by  an  authorized  representative  of 
the  Buckeye  Foundry  of  Cincinnati,  of  which  establish 
ment  the  bells  are  the  product. 

The  first  mellow  notes  that  welled  from  out  their  molten 
throats  were  the  beautiful  strains  of  "Lead,  Kindly 
Light,"  followed  by  "Holy,  Holy,  Holy,"  and  "Jesus, 
Lover  of  My  Soul." 

The  chimes  were  rung  again,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
exercises  at  the  grave  and  as  the  people  were  leaving  the 
grounds.  Among  the  selections  given  were  "Rock  of 
Ages,"  "Abide  With  Me,"  "Nearer,  My  God  to  Thee" 
and  "America." 


THE  BELLS. 

Names  and  Weights. 

The  twelve  bells  were  all  cast  of  Lake  Superior  copper 
and  East  India  imported  tin.  The  frame  that  supports 
them  is  of  steel,  and  the  playing-stand  and  attachments 
are  of  the  most  modern  and  perfect  construction.  The 
total  weight  of  the  bells  is  B222y2  pounds,  and  their  indi 
vidual  weights  are  as  follows:  F  bell,  265  pounds;  E  bell, 
303  pounds;  E  flat  bell,  368  pounds;  D  bell,  352  pounds; 
D  flat  bell,  334  pounds;  C  bell,  420  pounds;  B  flat  bell! 
544 y,  pounds;  A  bell,  600  pounds;  A  flat  bell,  646 
pounds;  G  bell,  921  pounds;  F  bell,  1538  pounds;  E  flat 
bell,  1931  pounds. 


THE  INSCRIPTIONS. 
Lines  Carved  on  the  Bells. 

On  the  large  bell  appears  the  following  inscription: 

To  the  Imperishable  Memory  of 

MRS.  ELIZA  A.  OTIS, 

(Obit.  Nov.  12,  1904) 
Honored  Wife  of  Gen.  Harrison  Gray  Otis, 

This  Chime  of  Bells  has  been  reared 

by  a  host  of  devoted   friends,  loving  hearts  and  willing 
hands  joined  together  in  the  Memorial  Association. 
Dedicated  with  impressive  ceremonies  on  this  spot, 

Nov.  15,  1905. 

Farewell,  high  and   noble  soul,   faithful   friend,  light  of 
the  home,   charming  writer  and   Christian   gentle 
woman,    "until    the    eternal    morning    pales 
in  its  glories  all  the  lights  of  Time." 

OTHER  LINES. 

Upon  the  other  bells  are  inscribed  poems  written  by 
Mrs.  Otis,  as  follows: 

Beyond.     (1904.) 

The  morning  of  my  earth  life,  O  how  far 
Lies  it  behind  me !  Past  my  noon  am  I, 
When  golden  shines  the  sun  within  the  sky, 

I  near  the  hour  when  shines  the  evening  star. 

Vet  morning  lies  beyond— the  better  morn, 
Which  may  be  mine  through  Christ,  the  living  way, 
The  glorious  morning  of  a  better  day, 

The  clouds  of  earth  will  flee  before  its  dawn. 

Woman.     (1895.) 

.     .     .     Yet  today  wide  swing 
The  golden  doors  of  Opportunity, 
Where  she  may  wisely  enter  if  she  but 


Heeds  the  simple  law  of  right:  "Do  first  the 
Duty  that  lies  nearest  thee."     This  doing, 
Then  bravely  onward  into  broader  fields, 
Seize  with  thy  might  whatever  duty  yields 
Work  for  the  world,  hold  to  the  good  and  true, 
And  Honor's  crown,  O  woman !  waits  for  you. 

The  Night.    (1901.) 

So  as  the  darkness  doth  unveil  the  Vast, 
Death  shall  enlarge  our  wisdom  when  we  cast 
The  scales  of  flesh  aside,  and  soul-life  springs 
Into  full  oneness  with  eternal  things, 
Drinking  God's  glory  in  until  we  rise— 
The  soul  all  eye,  all  ear— in  Paradise. 
Death  shall  bring  the  soul's  morning  as  the  night 
Brings  countless  stars  the  daylight  hides  from  sight. 

Home.     (1893.) 

The  world  has  nothing  that  is  half  so  fair 
As  that  green  island  in  its  desert  waste 
That  we  call  Home.     Oasis-like,  it  has 
Its  own  delights,  its  pleasant  atmosphere, 
Its  song  and  laughter,  and  its  hearts  that  know 
Not  doubt,  that  breathe  but  faith  and  loyalty. 
The  sun  shines  ever  there— the  sun  of  Love. 

Sunrise.     (1900.) 
O  Sunrise  gates !  the  gold  of  heaven 

Has  dropped  between  your  bars, 
And  Light  her  shining  curtain  draws 

Between  us  and  the  stars — 
The  silver  stars  that  light  the  skies 

When  Night  lies  dreaming  sweet, 
And  Morn  behind  Tomorrow's  hills 

Has  stayed  her  coming  feet. 

Life.     (1896.) 

In  Night's  vast  spaces  countless  stars  are  hung, 
And  the  great-bosomed  hills  are  glorified 
With  bud  and  blossom,  while  in  the  far  wide 
Vales,  tremulous  and  breeze-kissed,  grassy  blades 
Thrill  with  Day's  glory  till  the  sunset  fades. 

The  Spirit  Unfettered.    1879.) 
What  we  call  death  is  simply  life's  enlargement, 
The  dropping  of  the  fetters'that  have  bound 
The  spirit;  the  loosing  of  prison  bars; 
A  sudden  growth;  the  birth  of  a  feeble 
Embryo  life  to  full  and  perfect  being. 

Man.     (1895.) 

Vast  as  God's  thoughts  and  boundless  as  His  will; 
But  still,  O  soul  of  mine;  yet  still 
Vaster  art  thou  than  all  things;  no  such  span 
Measures  the  stars  as  that  which  measures  man. 
California.     (1879.) 

Close  by  the  gates  of  Paradise,  sometimes  ajar, 

Broods  endless  summer  o'er  a  wondrous  land, 

With  shining  skies  and  golden  strand, 

And  beauty  like  the  undimmed  brightness  of  a  star. 

Love.     (1892.) 

'Tis  always  morning  in  the  heart  of  Love; 
'Tis  always  youth,  for  love  does  ne'er  grow  old, 
'Tis  summer  always,  doubt  alone  is  cold, 
Love's  world  is  fair  as  any  world  above. 

Immortality.     (1901.) 
No  thought  of  good  is  ever  lost  to  man, 
And  no  kindly  deed  shall  ever  perish. 
Today  doth  write  itself  upon  the  page 
Of  coming  Time,  and  the  great  Tomorrows 
Of  our  being  are  but  the  perfect  blossoms 
Of  the  budding  Now. 


273 


"The  Bella  of  Hollywood." 


The  Pen  Falls. 
(Last  lines,  written  on  her  deathbed,  Nov.  8,  1904.) 

.     .     .     Here  the  Summer's  breath 
Still  lingers,  the  many  blossoms  wake, 
Color  and  sweetness  from  the  sunshine  take; 
They  show  no  signs  of  fading  or  of  death, 
The  Summer  trails  her  lovely  garments  still 
And  smiles  at  us  from  ev'rv  vale  and  hill. 


JEWISH  ELOQUENCE. 

Rabbi  Jacob  Voorsanger  of  San  Francisco,  with  "  Flowers 
From  the  North." 

I  come  from  the  North  with  a  message  to  the  South 
land;  I  come  with  a  sweet  burden  of  flowers  to  deposit 
them  on  the  grave  of  a  good  woman;  flowers  of  speech 
and  love  and  tender  sentiment.  We,  too,  have  known 
and  loved  her;  we,  too,  were  warmed  by  the  glow  of  her 
spirit;  we,  too,  mourned  for  her.  And  now,  that 
her  household  and  her  community  have  united  to  honor 
her  memory,  we  come  to  commune  with  you  in  this 
heaven-domed  shrine  and  to  salute  you  with  words  of 
peace  and  fraternity. 

As  I  listened  to  the  beautiful  words  of  the  orator  of 
the  day,  as  my  soul  was  stirred  with  the  music  or  the 
chimes  consecrated  to  her  memory,  a  thought  came  to 
me  that  I  must  not  withhold  from  you.  Graveyards 
have  their  object  lessons.  The  cities  of  the  dead,  the 
trysting  places  of  the  innumerable  pilgrims,  contain 
tablets  in  the  legends  of  which  man  may  spell  destiny. 
The  humblest  village  churchyard  and  the  huge  deserts 
that  hold  the  graves  of  empires — both  announce  the 
same  message,  that  the  generations  of  man,  like  the 
waves  of  a  river,  press  each  other  onward  to  the  sea, 
never  to  return.  This  is  an  eternal  truth;  if  so,  what 
remains  of  man? 

It  is  the  privilege  of  the  archaeologist  to  reconstruct 
the  life  and  activities  of  ancient  times  from  the  monu 
mental  inscriptions  beneath  his  gaze.  There  he  may  read 
of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  ancient  nations,  the  Baby 
lonian  city  builders,  the  Assyrian  charioteers,  the  Phoe 
nician  navigators,  the  Egyptian  hierarchs  and  canal  dig 
gers,  the  Greek  artists  and  colonists,  the  Roman  con 
querors;  but  everywhere  he  will  be  confronted  with  the 
same  inexorable  verdict:  That  nations  and  their  insti 
tutions,  their  languages  and  religions,  aye,  their  very 
gods!  bend  beneath  the  scythe  of  Time,  and,  expiring, 
sink  prone  upon  the  earth,  the  common  mother  of  us 
all.  He  learns  better  than  we  can  learn  that  the  thous 
and  years  of  empire  must  come  to  an  end.  I  often  think 
of  this  when  strolling  between  the  stones  planted  upon 
the  graves  in  which  lie  our  dead — must  we,  too,  die? 
I  mean  no  individual  when  I  ask  this  potent  question: 
must  this  people  die?  This  people,  heir  to  the  fairest 
portion  of  God's  earth,  endowed  with  the  potencies  that 
evolve  into  greatness  and  strength — must  it,  too,  bow  to 
the  law  and  expire  with  its  thousand  years  of  life? 
Here  we  are,  living  men  and  women,  heirs  of  yesterday, 
parents  of  tomorrow — shall  this  gathering  be  a  mere  em 
blem  of  memory,  a  reminiscence  of  the  things  that  were 
and  will  be  never  again,  and  shall  these  chimes  sing  only 
hymns  of  peace  and  rest,  and  address  no  stronger 
thought  to  the  things  that  are  to  be?  Have  we,  too,  built 
our  great  cities  only  to  enable  a  future  race  to  spell  out 
their  crumbling  ruins:  have  we,  too,  built  tracks  in  the 
wilderness,  only  that  the  hands  of  Time  may  erase  them ; 
have  we,  too,  made  this  land  beautiful  only  that  in  after- 
times  the  ugliness  of  the  desert  may  again  rest  upon  it? 
Like  you,  I  am  always  soothed  and  comforted  with  the 
hopeful  messages  of  religion,  peace  and  rest  for  the 
dead,  eternal  life  for  the  spirit,  everlasting  redemption 


in  God — but,  I  tell  you,  men  and  brethren,  beyond 
these  magnificent  ideals  of  the  human  soul,  those  elo 
quent  aspirations  of  the  human  heart  as  it  ascends  to 
touch  the  heart  of  God — beyond  these  should  lie  a 
wondrous  national  impulse  to  live,  not  to  be  overtaken 
by  the  fate  of  empire.  We  must  live,  California  must 
live,  America  must  live!  We  know  the  causes  that  led 
to  the  decay  and  death  of  ancient  nations — can  we 
avoid  them?  Can  we  rise  to  the  maximum  of  civic 
righteousness,  and  so  perpetuate  the  heritage  of  our 
children?  I  believe  we  can;  I  believe  it  with  my  heart 
and  soul;  I  believe  it  with  every  energy  that  rushes  on 
to  contribute  its  modest  share  to  the  activities  of  the 
present  day.  How,  then,  can  we  escape  death?  Power 
crumbles  like  the  rocks;  wisdom  changes  like  the  flashes 
of  the  sunlight;  wealth  is  the  most  perishable  thing  on 
earth.  But  character — character!  The  touch  of  God 
upon  us!  Is  that  not  deathless?  Well,  then,  this  is  the 
secret  of  life.  Let  us  be  righteous — let  us  endow  our 
children  with  character.  To  whom  shall  we  look  for  the 
performance  of  so  glorious  a  task,  if  not  to  our  wives 
and  mothers,  the  sanctified  character-builders  of  our 
nation?  This,  too,  these  chimes  are  whispering  to  me — 
that  we  shall  live  and  not  die,  if  righteousness  be  the 
attribute  of  our  national  life,  for,  "not  by  might  and 
not  by  power,  but  by  my  spirit,  saith  the  Lord!" 

This  dear  woman  whose  memory  we  cherish,  whose 
soul  wa's  attuned  to  the  highest  and  best  thoughts  of 
earth— was  she  not,  then,  above  all  things  a  character- 
Iniilder?  She,  the  gentle  wife  and  tender  mother,  was 
she  not  greatest  when  she  helped  her  kind  to  rise  to 
higher  levels?  She  sang  of  the  heaving  seas  and  of  the 
budding  earth,  of  the  starry  skies  and  the  white-headed 
mountains;  to  her  there  was  poetry  in  the  opening 
eyes  of  a  new-born  babe  and  the  fading  countenance  of 
a  venerable  mother;  but  her  songs  were  the  songs  of 
character,  and  her  aim  was  the  life  of  her  people,  a  life 
made  glorious  by  righteousness,  because  illuminated  by 
the  soul  of  God!  That,  to  many,  must  have  been  her 
greatest  attribute,  and,  therefore,  in  saluting  the  mem 
ory  of  Eliza  A.  Otis,  we  salute  the  spirit  of  a  great 
American  mother,  to  whom  we  owe  the  rearing  of  one 
of  the  corner-stones  of  righteousness,  the  high  attribute 
of  a  virtuous  nation  that,  aye,  unto  the  thousandth 
generation!  shall  love  God  and  keep  his  commandments. 
And  this  shall  be  our  high  destiny,  and  this  shall  be  our 
reward  from  Him  on  high,  whilst  the  seas  that  kiss  our 
land  salute  us  and  the  eternal  hills  keep  watch  that  the 
covenant  between  God  and  our  nation  shall  never  be 
sundered!  and  whilst  thus  we  think  and  labor,  these 
chimes  may  accompany  the  dead  to  their  resting  place, 
but,  in  Eliza  A.  Otis's'  name,  will  tell  the  living  that  for 
a  righteous  nation  there  exists  no  death! 


AT  THE  GRAVE. 

Dr.  Mclntyre's  High  Appreciation. 

Over  the  green-swarded  grave  of  the  dead  poet  had 
been  erected  by  loving  hands  a  striking  floral  structure 
of  chrysanthemums,  fashioned  after  the  peristyle  of  "The 
Bivouac,"  the  home  of  which  Mrs.  Otis  was  the  light,  and 
where  her  sweet  life  passed  out.  A  monument  resembling 
a  plain  headstone,  in  white  carnations,  with  the  simple 
inscription,  "Eliza  A.  Otis,"  indicated  the  occupant  of 
the  flower-decked  tomb.  Round  about  this  mound  the 
people  gathered  to  hear  the  concluding  portion  of  the 
memorial  exercises,  in  which  Rev.  Dr.  Mclntyre,  pastor 
of  the  First  Methodist  Episcopal  Church  of  Los  Angeles, 
was  the  central  figure. 

Standing  in  the  vehicle  of  Rev.  Father  Murphy,  rector 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  Hollywood,  drawn  up 


274 


Story  of  the  Dedication. 


in  the  roadway  fronting  the  grave,  Dr.  Mclntyre  deliv 
ered  an  oration  which  for  lofty  eloquence,  brilliant 
analysis  and  poetic  language  has  seldom  if  ever  been  sur 
passed  by  any  orator  in  the  land.  Its  diction  sparkled 
with  gems;  its  delivery  was  matchless;  its  effect  was 
thrilling. 

He  began  his  remarks  by  saying  that  in  his  ministerial 
work  of  thirty  years,  in  which  he  had  come  into  burial 
places  to  officiate  at  innumerable  funerals,  he  could  not 
remember  that  he  had  in  all  that  time  come  back  at  the 
end  of  a  year  to  stand  again  by  the  side  of  a  grave  to 
hold  a  further  ceremony. 

"This  is  a  unique  scene,"  he  said.  "I  cannot  remember 
any  parallel  to  it.  The  woman  we  are  met  to  honor  did 
not  belong  to  any  nobility.  She  was  a  simple,  sane, 
wholesome,  industrious  American  woman,  and  yet  when 
four  seasons  are  gone  by,  we,  her  neighbors  and  friends, 
are  here  again.  You  never  witnessed  anything  like  this. 
This  is  the  most  eloquent  occasion  I  have  known  in  this 
city. 

"We  honor  Mrs.  Otis  in  standing  here,  and  also  we 
honor  ourselves.  We  are  told  it  is  a  mercenary  age — 
that  men  are  rushing  greedily  after  wealth  and  women 
are  mad  after  social  honors.  Here  is  the  answer  to  that: 
I  look  today  in  a  thousand  faces  of  men  of  affairs  and 
women  of  social  prominence  who  have  come  here  to  honor 
a  woman  who  cared  nothing  for  wealth  or  social  distinc 
tion;  a  woman  who  let  others  struggle  for  the  empty 
bauble  and  gathered  round  herself  the  enduring  things 
which  pass  not  away. 

"I  do  not  know  who  planned  yonder  tower  or  who 
conceived  those  bells,  but  I  will  say  there  never  was  a 
more  fitting  or  more  perfect  memorial  since  time  began. 
These  bells  shall  bring  to  us  again,  in  memory,  the 
gracious  face  and  the  musical  voice  of  Mrs.  Otis. 

"Whnt  is  a  bell?  All  its  poetry,  all  its  pathos,  all  its 
power  depends  on  the  balance  of  the  atoms  contained  in 
it.  If  there  is  one  crack  the  breadth  of  a  hair  on  your 
baby's  forehead,  every  atom  in  that  bell  is  ruined.  Few 
men  can  stand  the  test  of  the  bell.  But  the  bell  in  which 
every  atom  is  poised  and  set  in  harmony  with  every  other 
atom  contained  in  it,  sets  forth  the  character  of  Mrs. 
Otis  perfectly.  Never  one  tone  from  any  bell  was  truer 
than  the  character  of  this  godly  woman.  We  dignify 
ourselves,  our  city  and  Southern  California  when  we 
gather  around  this  grave  to  honor  this  daughter  of 
America." 

Dr.  Mclntyre  then  went  on  to  relate  how  he  first 
became  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Otis  and  her  writings.  He 
said  some  years  ago,  while  living  in  Chicago,  he  made  up 
his  mind  that  Southern  California  would  ultimately  be 
his  home.  He  wanted  to  know  something  about  the  coun 
try,  and  the  best  place  to  get  information  about  a  locality 
is  the  newspaper.  So  he  began  to  procure  Los  Angeles 
Sunday  Times  at  the  news  stands  of  Chicago.  One  day, 
in  the  Magazine  Section  of  The  Times,  he  came  across  a 
poem  on  California  by  Eliza  A.  Otis.  He  read  it  to  his 
wife  and  children.  He  had  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Otis, 
but  he  had  been  a  student  of  poetry  and  he  recognized 
this  poem  as  a  gem.  He  cut  it  out  and  placed  it  in  his 
scrap-book.  He  added  to  it  other  poems  from  the  same 
gifted  pen,  until  he  had  a  fine  collection. 

He  then  told  about  coming  to  Los  Angeles  and  getting 
up  a  series  of  author's  readings.  Mrs.  Otis  graciously 
gave  her  help,  and  at  the  first  meeting  read  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  productions  he  had  ever  heard. 

"But  Mrs.  Otis  never  wrote  a  poem  as  perfect  as  her 
self,"  continued  the  speaker.  "She  did  for  California 
what  no  one  is  able  to  do  now. 


"Mrs.  Otis  had  taken  hold  of  the  soul  of  California. 
Only  four  California  writers  have  done  it — two  in  prose 
ana  two  in  poetry.  The  two  in  prose  are  Bret  Harte 
and  Helen  Hunt;  in  poetry  Joaquin  Miller  and  Mrs.  Otis. 

"A  hundred  men  are  trying  to  write  dialect  poetry. 
Ninety-nine  fail  because  they  think  the  dialect  is  in  the 
language,  when  it  is  in  the  thought.  James  Whitcomb 
Riley  thinks  dialect;  that  is  why  he  is  the  only  great 
dialect  poet.  Mrs.  Otis  got  hold  of  the  soul  of  California. 
She  saw  in  the  trees,  the  flowers,  the  foothills  covered 
with  cloth  of  gold,  an  entirely  new  theme.  To  her  Cali 
fornia  lifted  her  veil. 

"Every  now  and  then  God  raises  up  a  seer.  Only  one 
now  is  living  who  can  get  hold  of  the  soul  of  California; 
that  one  is  Joaquin  Miller. 

"There  once  were  only  three  perfect  flower  poems, 
Burns's  'Mountain  Daisy,'  Wordsworth's  'Daffodils,' 
Bryant's  'Fringed  Gentian.'  Now  there  are  four,  for  I 
challenge  the  critical  scholarship  of  America  to  deny 
that  Mrs.  Otis's  'Hibiscus  Flower'  is  worthy  to  live  in 
the  company  of  the  classic  three.  It  is  as  perfect  as  the 
flower;  the  bloom  itself  is  not  more  beautiful  nor  more 
deathless  than  this  poem: 

I  think  the  sunset,  jealous  of  your  flame, 

Did  pluck  its  crimson  glory  from  your  stem, 

And  there,  above  the  amber  of  the  West, 

A   glowing   ruby   from   its  diadem 

Has   laid   it   shining,  on  the   dead   Day's  breast. 

"She  was  the  one  seer  of  Southern  California  who 
could  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  dead  of  the  historic  past, 
and  greet  every  bird  and  flower  as  it  came  to  the  front 
in  the  procession  of  the  seasons. 

"The  early  rains  have  wakened  a  million  seeds  in  the 
soil,  and  in  the  capillaries  of  the  poppies  the  hidden 
strength  is  rushing  up  through  the  sod.  She  was  always 
first  to  greet  them,  but  now  they  will  look  for  her  in  vain. 

"Riley  tells  how  all  nature  ached  with  a  sense  of 
loneliness  and  loss  when  wee  Maliala  died: 

"Little    Haly,  Little    Haly,"  cheeps    the    robin    in    the 

tree; 
"Little  Haly,"  sighs  the  clover;  "Little  Haly,"  moans  the 

bee; 

"Little  Haly,  Little  Haly,"  calls  the  kildeer  at  twilight; 
And  the  katydids  and  crickets  call  for  Haly  all  the  night. 

The  medder  'pears  to  miss  her,   and  the  pathway  thro' 

the  grass 
Where  the  dew-drops  ust  to  kiss  her  little  bare  feet  as  she 

pass ; 
And  the  old  pin  in  the  gate-post  seems  to  kind  o'  sort  o' 

doubt 
That  Haly's  little  sunburned  hands'll  ever  pull  it  out. 

There's   sorrow  in  the    wavin'    leaves    of    all    the    apple 

trees; 
And   sorrow   in   the  harvest   sheaves,  and  sorrow   in   the 

breeze ; 

And  sorrow  in  the  twitter  of  the  swallows 'round  the  shed; 
And   all   the   song  her   red-bird   sings   is:  "Little   Haly's 

dead." 

"When  the  poppies  lift  their  golden  cups  to  catch  the 
sun  they  will  pour  libations  to  her  who  never  failed  to 
greet  their  earliest  advent.  How  will  they  wonder  where 
she  fares,  that  she  cometh  not  to  meet  them  as  of  old! 
The  mocking-bird  in  the  tree  above  the  home  will  call  in 
vain;  the  shy  hare  will  wait  in  large-eyed,  timid  expecta 
tion;  the  linnet  in  the  hedge  will  flute  the  well-known 
welcome;  the  bee  hid  in  the  red  blossom  will  question; 
the  wood-dove  will  croon ;  the  grass-hid  cricket  that  kissed 
her  sandals  will  chirp:  'Mrs.  Otis,  Mrs.  Ot:<s  where  dost 
thou  tarry?' 


275 


"The  Bells  of  Hollywood." 


"Alas,  small  kinfolk  of  the  field  and  wood;  ye  little 
people  of  the  sky  and  glen;  how  will  you  change  your 
exultant  cadences  to  sobbing  threnodies  as  through  all 
your  ranks  doth  run  the  wail:  'Our  well-beloved  is  no 
more.  She  who  spoke  for  us,  sang  for  us,  is  gone.  We 
cannot  waken  her.  They  have  taken  her  away  and 
we  know  not  where  they  have  laid  her.'  'Mrs.  Otis  is 
dead,'  sobs  the  sea,  the  canon  sighs,  the  pines  whisper, 
the  birds  sing,  the  flowers  mourn:  'Mrs.  Otis  is  dead.'" 

Approaching  his  peroration,  Dr.  Mclntyre  said: 
"When  God  sends  a  poet  into  this  sin-cursed,  brutalized 
old  world,  when  He  sends  one  sweet  soul  with  singing 
robes,  He  gives  a  benediction  to  all  mankind. 

"We  never  know  our  great  ones  until  they  are  gone. 
This  gap  cannot  be  filled.  Not  a  poet  can  sing  Southern 
California  now.  Heaven  send  us  another  such  seeing  eye, 
another  such  melodious  soul ! 

"Mrs.  Otis  was  a  very  near  approach  to  the  perfect 
woman.  She  was  a  home-lover,  a  helper,  and  never  happy 
unless  she  had  some  one  to  do  for.  Hers  was  the  great 
mother  heart." 

He  then  spoke  of  the  fullness  of  her  life  as  daughter, 
wife  and  mother,  of  her  devotion  to  her  husband,  and  her 
patriotism,  and  after  extolling  her  many  virtues  he  quoted 
Tennyson's  immortal  lines: 

"Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music 

out  of  sight." 

"That,"  declared  the  eloquent  preacher,  "fits  her  as 
music  fits  the  words  of  a  noble  hymn." 

Quoting  the  poem,  "She  is  not  dead,  but  gone 
away,"  Dr.  Mclntyre,  raising  his  hands  to  heaven,  dra 
matically  exclaimed:  "Are  you  people  not  conscious, 
standing  here,  of  an  unseen  presence?  It  is  the  sense 
of  immortality  that  tells  us  she  is  here.  Do  not  tell  me 
Mrs.  Otis  sleeps  there!  No  woman  in  this  congregation 
is  as  much  alive  as  Mrs.  Otis  is  now." 

When  Dr.  Mclntyre  had  concluded,  Dr.  S.  Hecht, 
rabbi  of  Temple  B'nai  B'rith  of  this  city,  pronounced  the 
benediction,  prefaced  by  a  few  eloquent  remarks  in 
honor  of  Mrs.  Otis. 


CLOSING  WORDS  AND  BENEDICTION 
By  Rabbi  S.  Hecht,  D.D. 

Our  ancient  sages  speak  of  three  crowns  which  may 
adorn  the  brow  of  mortals  in  life.  These  crowns  are 
designated  as  the  Crown  of  the  Law,  the  Crown  of  Priest 
hood,  and  the  Crown  of  Royalty;  but,  they  add,  there  is 
a  crown,  surpassing  all  others  in  value,  and  that  is  the 
Crown  of  a  Good  Name. 

Standing  here  today,  near  the  mound  consecrated  by 
the  dust  of  a  noble  woman,  deposited  here  a  year  ago,  I 
feel  that  I  am  justified  in  saying,  without  fear  of  trans 
gressing  the  limitaiions  of  truth,  that  she  who  sleeps  here 
that  long,  dreamless,  eternal  sleep,  has  gained  the  three 
fold  crown  during  her  life  on  earth,  and  that,  adorned 
by  the  crown  of  a  good  name,  her  immortal,  disembodied 
spirit  has  sought  and  found  closer  union  with  God. 

The  world  is  poorer  in  having  lost  Eliza  A.  Otis;  the 
world  is  richer  for  her  having  lived  on  earth,  for  her 
having  sent  joy  and  sunshine,  and  happiness  and  cheer 
into  thousands  of  hearts  and  homes. 


Mrs.  Otis  was  one  of  the  uncrowned  queens;  her 
scepter,  gently  swaying  over  thousands  of  her  fellow- 
beings,  was  love  and  kindness,  and  all  who  directly  or 
indirectly  came  to  know  her  willingly  bowed  to  that  in- 
signium  of  her  rule. 

She  wore  the  crown  of  the  Law,  that  is,  of  knowledge, 
for  she  had  drunk  deep  from  the  Pierian  Spring,  and 
shj  was  a  high  priestess  in  the  Temple  of  Knowledge, 
ministering  to  her  surroundings  and  giving  forth  of  the 
abundance  of  her  mental,  moral  and  intellectual  wealth. 
And  now  that  her  voice  is  hushed,  her  widespread  in 
fluence  for  good  remains,  a  blessing  to  those  who  survive 
her,  to  the  generations  yet  unborn. 

Prayerfully  attuned,  our  hearts  turn  Godward  in  this 
solemn  moment,  and  with  one  accord,  we,  regardless  of 
our  peculiar  views  on  religion,  united  in  the  one  strong 
belief  in  His  universal  Fatherhood,  say:  O  Thou  Omnip 
otent  One,  in  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being, 
be  near  us  as  we  supplicate  Thee  in  behalf  of  the  liv 
ing  and  the  dead.  Accept  our  thanks  for  that  pure, 
beautiful  and  devoted  life  which  Thou,  in  the  abundance 
of  Thy  mercy,  hast  given  and  in  Thy  unfathomable  wis 
dom  hast  taken.  Make  us  strong  to  bear  up  under  Thy 
visitations:  bless  those  who  in  the  taking  away  of  Thy 
faithful  child  have  felt  their  heart-strings  a-tremble. 
May  they  feel  and  be  convinced  that  she  whom  they  loved 
and  revered  as  wife  and  mother  is  not  dead,  and  may 
.we  feel  with  them  that  for  such  as  she  was  there  is  no 
death.  May  yonder  bells,  dedicated  to  her  memory, 
when  they  sound  forth  their  chimes,  waft  the  name  and 
memory  of  Eliza  A.  Otis  as  a  message  of  cheer  and 
strength  and  comfort  and  spiritual  uplifting.  May  the 
inspiration  of  her  life  arouse  the  spirit  of  emulation  in 
those  who  survive  her.  Fulfill  Thy  gracious  promise  of 
immortal  life  to  her  whose  earthly  remains  are  here 
bedded  to  eternal  rest,  and  grant  her  that  reward  which 
Thou  boldest  in  store  for  all  the  good  and  pure.  And 
upon  us  and  upon  all  Thy  children,  the  whole  human 
family,  fulfil  Thy  gracious  promise  according  to  Thy 
word:  May  the  Lord  bless  thee  and  protect  thee;  may 
the  Lord  cause  His  light  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gra 
cious  unto  thee;  may  the  Lord  lift  up  His  countenance 
upon  thee,  and  grant  thee  the  blessing  of  strength  through 
peace.  Amen ! 


At  length  the  day  was  done,  and  with  it  was  done  the 
deed  that  will  not  die.  In  the  slanting  shadows  of  the 
afternoon,  as  the  twilight  gathered  over  vale  and  hill, 
the  concourse  passed  out  from  the  company  of  the  dead 
to  life  and  the  things  of  life  again.  Upon  their  faces 
was  the  light  of  a  surpassing  peace,  the  brooding  spirit 
of  the  uplifting  moments  through  which  they  had  passed. 
In  every  voice  there  was  a  gentler  tone;  in  every  face 
there  was  a  kindlier  glow.  It  seemed  just  then  that 
Death  was  robbed  of  all  the  terrors  with  which  it  had 
been  before  portrayed.  Out  under  the  open  sky,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  hills,  God  had  communed  with  his  own 
as  He  was  wont  to  do  in  the  days  of  old  when  His 
children  were  close  to  His  heart  of  mercy.  From  the 
swaying  tower  again  rang  out  the  golden  chimes  of 
melody,  and  we  said  good  night  to  her—good  night  to  the 
Singer  who  sleeps  content. 

This    descriptive    account    of    the    unique    and    inexpressibly 
beautiful     dedicatory     exercises     is     the     joint     work     of     Mr. 
I  John    S.    McGroarty    and   Mr.   W.    S.    Livengood   of  The  Time» 

I  staff,    who    wrote   with    knowledge,    appreciation    and    feelingv 


276 


FLORAL  PERISTYLE  OVER  THE  GRAVE  OF  MRS.  OTIS. 


Tributes  from  Other  Poets. 


TRIBUTES   FROM   OTHER  POETS. 


THE    MEMORIAL    CHIMES. 

[Dedicated  to  the  Eliza  A.  Otis  Memorial  Association.] 
BY  MRS.  GUSSIE  PACKARD  DUBOIS  (PASADENA.) 
What  say  the  bells,  the  chiming  bells  of  Hollywood? 
From  distant  merge  of  sunset  sea  and  cloudless  sky 
The  echoes  float,  and  far-off  purple  peaks  their  high, 
Sweet  tones  send  back,  like  bel fried  towers  that  long  have 

stood 

To  garner  melodies;  yet  never  chimes  like  these 
Have  sea  or  mountain  heard.     They  fling  a  message  wide, 
That  brims  the  quiet,  sunlit  plain,  a  swelling  tide, 
And  rolls,  a  sea  of  sound,  above  the  sunset  sea. 
These  bells  were  forged  of  flawless  Love,  white  Charity 
And  silvery  Hope.     Of  shining  Faith  a  fine  alloy 
Was   made,   then   priceless,   ringing   Truth,   and  tranquil 

Joy, 

And  lo!  the  bells  were  cast.     Ring  out  o'er  land  and  sea, 
O  chiming  bells!     Tell  in  mellifluous,  mellow  rhymes 
The   worth   of  her  who  sleeps   beneath   your   chambered 

chimes. 

Across  the  peaceful  valley  and  the  fruited  dell, 
Above  the  city's  traffic,  turmoil  and  unrest, 
The  liquid  chimes  peal  out.     And  still,  at  her  behest, 
Who   being  dead  yet   lives,  clear,   through  each   twilight 

bell 
Shall  float   her  thought   of  peace.     From  out   the  matin 

blown 
Shall  ring  her  dauntless  courage.     Through  the  noontide 

air 

Shall  thrill  a  call  to  action  like  the  trumpet's  blare. 
O  silvery  voices !  one  true  voice  within  each  tone 
Pulsates  and  swells.     Ye  have  no  melody  so  sweet 
Within  yourselves  as  that  sweet  voice;  yet,  in  its  stead 
Pour  your  sweet  balm  on  sorrow  over  pain  and  dread; 
Ring  out  your  Angelus,  and  stay  the  passing  feet 
For  strength  and  rest,  that  her  clear  singing  still  may- 
seem 
Borne  over  heavenly  parapets  as  in  a  dream. 

MEMORIAL   BELLS. 
BY    MRS.    J.    TORREY    CONNOR    (OAKLAND.) 

Oh,  listen  to  the  throbbing  bells, 
The   sweet-toned   bells    a-chime! 
A  promise  and  a  prophecy 
Sound  in  their  cadenced  rhyme. 
Each  silver  tongue  a  message  tells ; 
Oh,  listen  to  the  chiming  bells! 

Ring  out,  ring  out,  Memorial   Bells ! 

God  is  in  heaven  above; 

Ring  for  the  peace  that  earth  shall  know 

Ring  for  the  reign  of  love. 

Faith  conquers  fear,  and  doubt  dispels; 

Proclaim  the   faith,   Memorial   Bells! 


There's  music  in  the  pealing  bells— 

A  grand,  triumphant  song; 

They  ring  for  noble  thoughts  and  deeds, 

For  triumph  over  wrong. 

Now,  loud  and  clear  the  chorus  swells — 

Oh,  hear  the  bells,  the  pealing  bells ! 

Ring   for  the  past,  Memorial   Bells! 
Ring  for  the  good  cause  won; 
Ring   for   the  struggle  yet  to  be — 
The  brave  fight  just  begun. 
Wake  echoes  over  hills  and  dells, 
That  all  may  heed,  Memorial  Bells! 

Hark  to  the  bells,  the  solmen  bells! 

They  bid  you  doubt  no  more; 

The  ships  of  hope,  belated  long, 

Will  yet  come  safe  to  shore. 

May  you  whose  soul  in  darkness   dwells 

List  to  the  message  of  the  bells. 

Ring  on,  ring  on,  Memorial  Bells! 

Recall  the  presence  dear 

Of  one,   a   spirit,   sweet,   serene, 

Who  'bode  among  us  here. 

Joy  smiles  while  yet  the  tear-drop  wells; 

"Death  hath  no  sting."     Ring  on,  glad  bells! 

THE  CHIMES  OF  HOLLYWOOD. 

BY  RUBY  ARCHER   (LOS  ANGELES.) 
Warm  pulse  the  chimes  adown  the  afternoon, 
Their  golden  music  all  with  sunlight  blent, 
O'er  waking  meadows,  tremulous  and  clear, 
To  far  blue  hills,  the  floating  tones  wing  slow, 
Like  birds  enchanted,  singing  though  unseen, 
Through  hours  more  wonder-bright  than  open  flowers. 

Pale,  loosened  rose-leaves  fall  upon  the  earth, 
Dying  to  melodies  of  plaintive  bells, 
Till  all  the  evening  ways  are  blue  with  shade, 
Anu  mists,  like  dreams,  are  whitely  drawing  near. 

Faint,  sweet,  mysterious  as  the  wind-borne  rose, 
Comes  answer  to  the  yearning  of  all  souls — 
Hark! — in  the  bells  one  word:  Eternity. 

As  turns  the  muezzin  to  his  olden  shrine, 
Letting  his  hands  their  labors  all   forget. 
When  from  the  mosque  resounds  the  call  to  prayer — 
Thus,  at  this  chime,  rich  graven  with  her  words, 
So  thrilling  in  life's  message  unto  life, 
The  hearts  of  all  that  listen  cease  their  toil 
And  beat  responsive  to  those  tender  tones; 
Love  knocks  and  enters  with  their  wistful  peal, 
And  countless  lives  are  softened  while  they  ring. 
What  fonder  wish  could  trance  a  poet's  soul 
Than  thus  to  live  in  Song's  immortal  power — 
Yea,  utter  deathless  beauty  to  the  world? 


277 


INDEX. 


POETRY. 


California: 

A    Wondrous    Land  ..................................... 

California:    II,  III,  IV,  V,  VI,  VII,  VIII  .............. 

Semi-Tropic    California  —  Our    Summerland  .......... 

Bride  of   the   Sun  —  Our   Fair   Southland  ............. 

The  Land   We  Love  —  The  Land   of  Sunshine  ....... 

The  Land  of  Sunshine:     II,   III,   IV  .................. 

Out  of  Doors  in  Suuland  —  A  Golden  Sunset  —  A 

Royal    Sunset:     II  —  Transfigured  ................... 

California's  Yesterday,  Today  and  Tomorrow  —  My 

Lady   of    the   Angels  .................................. 

My  Lady  of  the  Angels:    II,   III,   IV  .................. 

The    Home    of    the    Fiesta  —  Angelena  ................ 

On   a   Hollywood    Hilltop  ............................... 

Los  Angeles  to  Chicago  —  California  at  St.  Louis  — 

Fair    Westlake    ....................................... 

In   Westlake   Park:     II  ................................. 

Blysian  Park  —  Catalina  —  Under  the  Oaks  .......... 

Santa  Barbara  at  Sunset:  II  —  Santa  Barbara  Then 

and    Now    ............................................. 

Santa  Barbara  —  Under  a  Pacific  Sky  —  Castle 

Rock  —  The    Channel    Islands  ........................ 

O  Land  of  Sun!  —  Winter  Here  and  There  —  On 

the   Beach    ............................................ 

This  Fair,  Sweet  Land  We  Love  ...................... 

Trees,  Grasses  and  Flowers: 

The  Land  of  the  Orange  Tree  —  The  Great  Se 
quoias—The  Spirit  of  the  Trees  ................... 

Flower   Songs    (7)  ....................................... 

The  Second  Birth  of  the  Flowers  —  The  Child  and 
the  Pansies  .......................................... 

Lilies  —  Water  Lilies  —  Bluebells  —  The  Birth  of 
the  Chrysanthemums  ....................  ,  ........... 

The  Birth  of  the  Rose  ................................. 

Roses  —  Golden   Abutilon  —  Spirits   of   the   Flowers. 


Mission   Days: 

San    Fernando  —  The    Old    Missions  ..................  . 

Santa  Barbara   Mission  ................................. 

The  Passing  of  the  Old  Missions  ...................... 

The  Months  and  Seasons: 

How    the    New    Year    Comes    To    Us  —  These    New 

Year's  Days  —  A  New  Year's   Invitation  ........... 

The  New  Year  —  The  Old  Year  and  the  New  ....... 

The   New   Century:     II  —  These  January   Days  ...... 

A     February     Day  —  March:      'Tis     Only     Spring  — 

These    Clouded    April    Days  —  April's    Close  —  An 

April   Outlook    ........................................ 

Semi-Tropic      April  —  O      Rose-lipped     May!  —  The 

Maytime  —  June  —  A     Summer     Picture  —  A     Day 

in    June    ...................................  .-  .......... 

A    Fog-Cloud    in    Sweet    June  —  The    Flower-lipped 

June  —  June:     II    .................................... 

June:    III,  IV  —  Dying  July  —  A  July  Day  in  Sun- 

land  —  A   Cloudy   August   First  ...................... 

Semi-Tropic    September  —  September  :     II  ............ 

October  in  the  East  —  Semi-Tropic  October  .......... 

October:      U  —  November    Days  —  Semi-tropic     No 

vember    Noons    ....................................... 

November  —  December:    II  —  Semi-tropic  Decem 

ber—A    December    Idyll  ............................. 

Our   December    Days  —  The   Closing   Year  —  As   the 

Old    Year    Dies  ........................................ 

The  Vanishing  Year  —  The  Year's  Last  Days  —  The 

Old  Year  in   California  ............................... 

The   Old   Year  —  Good    Night,    Old    Year  —  The   Old 
Year  Asleep  —  Thanksgiving  Time  in  California.. 


20 
21-22 


This  Thanksgiving  Day  —  Our  Semi-tropic  Win 
ter  —  Winter  in  California  —  The  Winter  of  Sun- 
land  

Semi-tropic  Winter  —  Our   Glorious  Winter 

Winter  Land  —  Winter    

Winter  on  His  Semi-tropic  Throne  —  Easter  (1886- 
1898-1902)  —  Easter  Morning  —  Summer  Musings.. 

Midsummer  —  Autumn :  II  —  Sunrise  —  The  Morn 
ing  Hour  

This  Morn  of  Fog  —  The  Dawn  —  Sunrise  Upon 
These  Sunset  Shores  —  Morning:  II,  III,  IV  — 
Sunrise  at  Santa  Barbara  —  Noon  —  The  Beautiful 
Day  

This  Summer  Day  —  Those  Golden  Days  —  The  Dy 
ing  Day  

The  Day  and  I  —  From  Day  to  Day  — Today:  II  — 
The  Day  

The  Day:  II  —  Day  —  Sunset:  II,  III  —  A  Summer 
Sunset  —  Sunset  on  San  Francisco  Bay  —  Sunset 
at  Santa  Monica 

Evening  —  Night:  II,  III,  IV,  V,  VI  —  Night  and 
Morning  

The  Drouth  and  the  Rain: 

To  the  Clouds  in  Drouth-time  —  The  Coming  of  the 
Rain  —  Storm  Pictures  —  Our  Winter  Rains 

A  Prayer  for  Rain  —  Waiting  for  the  Rain  —  The 
Rains  Are  Coming 

When  the  Rain  Comes  —  The  Blessed  Rain 

O  Rain- washed  Skies!— A  Rainy  Day  —  After  a 
February  Rain  —  When  the  Rain  Came 

After    the    Rain:     II 

The    Rain    (1878-1893) 

Mountain,  Desert,  Canyon  and  Gorge: 

Yosemite:  II,  III,  IV,  V,  VI  —  Morning  in  the 
Yosemite  

On  Eagle  Point,  Yosemite  —  Approaching  the  Yo 
semite  —  Bogoslov  

Old  Baldy  —  Upward  to  San  Antonio's  Crest  — 
Mount  Wilson  

Sunset  on  Mt.  Lowe  —  Mount  San  Bernardino  — 
Our  Mounts  of  Snow 

Mount  Wilson  —  On  Far  Sierra  Heights  —  The 
Sierra  Madre  

Our  Mountains:  II  —  At  the  Grand  Canon  —  On 
the  Desert  

The   Royal   Gorge  —  Niagara  —  On   the   Desert 

The    Desert  —  On    Mountain    Heights  —  Popocatepetl 


Under  Arctic  Skies: 


An   Arctic   Day  —  The   Pribylov   Isles 

Sunland  and  Snowland  —  In  the  Land  of  the  Mid 
night  Sun  —  Storm-tossed  on  Alaska's  Shore 

East  and  West: 

Flower-Land  and  Frost-Land  —  Here  and  There  — 
Sunset  Gates  —  Beside  the  Western  Sea  —  Pre 
diction  

Poems  of  Patriotism: 

Dawn  of   the   Centennial 

Decoration    Day:     II 

The   Death   of   Ellsworth 

Garfield  —  Greatness     

"  The   Star   of   Empire  "  —  The   Men   and   the   Days 

of    '61    

The  Nation's  Dead  —  Our  Immortal  Dead 

Grant  —  Grant    Dead    and    Triumphant  —  The    Days 

of    '64    


65-66 
67 


278 


Certificate  of  flfcembersbip 


Chis  Certifies 


£liza  Mite  .Memorial  association 


having  contributed  to  the  Fund  for  the  erection  of  Memorial  Chimea 
///  the  Chapel  of  Hollywood  Cemetery, California,  in  commemoration  of  the  life  and 
character  of  a  woman  of  high  and  poetic  soul  honored  and  beloved  for  her  good  deeds 
done  by  person  and  pen  for  home,  family  and  Country,  for  God  and  Humanity. 

Jln($ratcful  Bchnoiulc^gmcnt  thereof,  and  hy  authority  of  the  Executive 
Committee,  we  have  hereunto  set  our  hands  and  affixed  the  official  seal  of  the  Association 
at  eterltte  day  of  isos. 


Index. 


Liberty's  Morn  —  The  Lessons  of   Memory  ...........  90 

Westward    Empire    .....................................  91 

Christopher    Columbus    ................................  92 

Sometimes      .............................................  93 

Earth's  Great  Seas  —  Roll  Onward  —  When  the 

Battle    Breaks     .......................................  94 

Our   Country's   Call  —  Freedom's    Seed  —  America.  ..  95 

The  Race  Shall  Wake  —  Blossoms  on  the  Deep  ......  9ii 

Freedom's  Land  —  The  School  of  Liberty  ............  97 

Anarchy  —  America's    Morning    .......................  98 

This  Waking  We.st  —  In  Memoriam  —  The  Land  of 

the   Stripes   and    Stars  .........              ................  99 

In  the  Track  of  Empire  —  The  President  in  the 

Great    West  —  Our    Country  ..........................  100 

McKinley  ..............................................  101 

God  and  Nature: 

Nature's    Voices:      II  —  Out-of-Doors  —  Tenting    on 

the   Canon's   Shore  ....................................          102 

The  Love  of  God  —  Kindred  With  Nature  ............          103 

Bible    Pictures    .........................................          104 

God,   Nature  and   I  —  The   Penitent  ...............  103 

God's      Poems  —  The      Miracles      of      Nature  —  Our 

Father      ............................................... 

Omnipresent     Deity  —  Nature  —  Being's     Mystery  — 

The   Light    .......................................... 

The  Deathlessness  of  Being  —  With   Nature   -  God's 

World     ................................................          108 

Life    Through    Christ  —  A    Winter    Lesson  —  In    the 

Open      .................................................          109 

The    Banner     of      God's    Love  —  Our    Hidden     Ser 

vants—The   Eternal   Hills  ...........................          110 

Nature's   Temple  —  With    Nature  —  Pictures  —  Come 

Walk    With    Me  .......................................         Ill 

With    Nature    and    God  —  God    in    All    Things  —  The 

Alphabet    of    Deity  ....................................          112 

God's    World  —  Forever    Nigh  .........................          113 

Nature's      Child  —  God  —  Morning    Out    of    Doors  — 

Nature's     Lessons  ................  i  ....................          114 

Songs   of   Nature:     II  ..................................         115 

Life  and  Duty,  Hope  and  Joy: 

Wedding     Bells  —  This     Fair,     Bright     Day  —  From 
Midnight    to    Morning  —  Two  ........................          ll'i 

Life:    II  —  Speak  to  Thy  Soul  .........................          117 

Life    Is    Divine  ..........................................          118 

Man  and  Woman: 

The    W.C.T.U.  —  The    Drunkard  .......................          119 

Woman     .................................................          120 

Home  —  Earth's     Divinest     Thing  —  Love's     Wishes 
to   a  Bride  —  If   Love   Were   Dead  ...................          121 

The    True    Woman  ......................................          122 

The   True  Woman   and   Home  —  Man:     II  ............  123-124 


The  Undiscovered  Country: 

Lazarus     ................................................ 

Heart    Weariness  ....................................... 

Life   and   Death  —  The   Babe   of   Bethlehem  ...... 

Look     Up  —  The     World's     First     Sabbath  —  Easter 

Morning       ............................................. 

What  Am  I?  —  Shall  We  Not  Hail  It?  ............... 

Good-Night,  Dear  One!  —  The  Sweets  of  Paradise  — 

Life's   Sunset   Sea  —  Gates   Ajar  ...... 

Faith  —  No   Bar,    O   Father!  —  Not    Dying    But    Un 

dying  —  Soul-Speech  —  Transfiguration      ........... 

The  Soul's  Release  —  The  World's  First  Christmas. 
On    the    Beach  —  "  To    You    This    Day    a    Christ    Is 

Born"  —  Truth's    Twilight    and    Dawn  ............. 

Eternity  —  Let  Me  Find  Thee  —  Our  Larger  Life... 
Cradled    With    God  —  Christ    Is    Born  ................. 

No  Place  Where  God  Is  Not  —  The  Immortal  Path 

way  —  Falsehood     .................................... 


133 
134 
135 


The  Triune  God 137 

Beyond  138 

The  Sabbath  — His  Ways  — "Lo!  I  Am  With 

Thee  Alway!  "  13!» 

All  Is  Well  —  Our  Unseeing  Eyes 140 

The  Unspoken  Mystery  —  Faith  —  My  Unknown 

Self  HI 

The  Better  Land  —  Christ  the  Life  —  The  World's 

Story  112 

The  Life  That  Is  Free  —  What  Am  I? 1 13 

Juvenile  Poems: 

God     Lighting     the     Stars  —  The     Fairies     and     the 

Children  —  The  Story  of  the  Fairy 144 

Vision    of    Santa    Claus 145 

My    Children 14t; 

Cinderella,    or   the  Crystal    Slipper 147 

A    Little    Poem 148 

Lullaby     Song  —  Childhood  —  Childhood's     Days     in 

Winterland    149 

Child    Wondering  —  The    Child    and    the    Rosebud  — 

Care-free    Childhood  —  Childhood's    Faith 150 

Jennie   and    Johnnie — Fairyland 152 

Jack    and    Jill  —  Dreamland 15:; 

The    Little    Marnma    and    Her    Dollies  —  Out-Doors 

in     Sunland 154 

The    Flower    Maiden 155 

Little  Boy  Blue  —  Castles   in   Spain 15t; 

How  the  Cow  Jumped  Over  the  Moon 157 

"  Jack-in-the-Pulpit  "      15S 

What  the  Child  Said  —  A  Little  Maiden 15!» 

The  Boy   the  Angels  Loved K'>0 

The   Night   Before   Christmas 1G1 

A  Little  Maid  —  A  Child   Again 1G2 

My   Bunny  —  Little  Ida  —  The  Faith  of  Childhood..  103 
Childhood    in    Summerland  —  January  —  The   Fairies 

and    the    Butterfly I»i4 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit  —  The     Child     and     the     Birds  — 

Little    Boy    Blue Ilia 

Jack    and    the    Beanstalk 160 

Unclassified  Poems: 

The   Leper's   Cleansing  —  From    My    Window IfiS 

Memnon  —  The    Old    Adobe 1*59 

The     Old     Adobe:       II  —  An     Evening     Picture  —  A 
Morning   of  the   Long  Ago  —  The   Clouds   and    the 

Fairies     170 

The  Soul  of  the  Day  —  An  Eastern  Summer  Shower  171 

Clouds    and    Stars  —  Art  —  Peace 172 

The  Evening  Star  —  In  Chinatown  —  The  Unwritten 

Past     1"3 

Our  Two  Worlds  —  In  the  Fields  of  Knowledge....  174 
'Mid   Olden   Days  —  Our   Summer  World  —  Cocoanut 

Island,    Hilo    Bay 175 

Whittier  —  Meteoric    Showers  —  The    Modern    Print 
ing-Press      

Night  and  the  Stars  —  In   Vale  and   on  Height... 

The   Philosophy   of   Browning 178 

Morning  —  The    Other    Day 179 

Sweet    Content  —  Butterflies    and    Bees  —  Bird    An 
thems     ISO 

Charlotte     Bronte  —  Eastern      Woods  —  The     Oldeu 

Thanksgiving     181 

In  the   Country  —  The   Maid   of  Orleans 

In  the  Old   Earth's  Heart 183 

Child  Faith:    The  Comet  —  DoL'e  Far  Niente  —  Un 
touched    by    Time 184 

Sweet    Bird-Song    Stilled 185 

What    the    Brook    Says  —  "  The    Testimony    of    the 

Rocks"     !*«' 

In  the  Fields  of  Ohio  —  The  First  Sabbath  in  Eden.  1ST 

The   Mocking-Bird   and   the   Morns  of  June 188 

A      Secret  —  A      Morning      Out      of      Doors  —  "  The 

Golden     Elephant" 189 


279 


Index. 


Santa    Claus    Land 190-191-192 

On    My    Veranda 192 

To    Our    Little    One  —  To    Our    Baby  —  The    First 

Night  in  Eden  —  The  Little  Children  —  Emblems.         193 
Emblems     194 

Snatches  of  Song: 

Love  —  Joyful  Day  —  Earth's  Fair  Morning  — 
Song  —  The  Mountain  Stream  —  At  Noon  —  An 

Arctic     Day 195 

Love's    Dream  —  Sonnet  —  Love's    World 19fi 

Other  Short  Verse: 

In  Memoriam  —  Stringed  Pearls  —  A  Mountain 
Lake  — How  Far?  —  Life  —  The  Summer  Brook  — 
O  Happy  Bird! 197 

Dolce  Far  Niente  —  Sweet  By-and-By  —  An  East 
ern  July  Noon  —  The  Stars  —  Our  Summer 
Land  —  This  Summer  Day,  the  Sabbath  —  Our 
Father  —  Thanksgiving  —  A  New-Born  Babe 198 


A  Sunset  Psalm  —  A  Fragment  —  The  Lily's 
Death  —  Who  Knows?  —  Day  —  Good-Night  —  The 
Pen  Falls 

PART  II— DESCRIPTIVE  PROSE. 

In    the    Yosemite 

Other    Sketches    of    Travel 

In    War    Times 

Editorial    Writings 

Lay    Sermons 

Our    Boys    and    Girls 

Lights    and    Flashes 

Sketch   of  the  Author 

Appendix:     The    Memorial    Bells 267-27? 

Index     278-280 


211-233 

234-261 

262 

263 


280 


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